


Tying the Strings of Fate

by Sonderlust45



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Jon Snow, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Jon Snow is Sansa's dark guardian angel, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Jon and Sansa POVs, Jon and the Starks Are Not Related, Mutual Pining, Out of Character, Possessive Jon Snow, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2020-10-14 08:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 59,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20597477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonderlust45/pseuds/Sonderlust45
Summary: In the blink of an eye, Sansa's life changes. One minute she is crossing the road to go to lunch, and the next she is tackled out of the way of a speeding car, saving her life.As time goes by, she grows closer to her saviour, the mysterious man who risked his own life for hers. Like puzzle pieces falling into place, Sansa begins to see that there is much more to Jon Snow than meets the eye.Was it really a coincidence that he happened to be at the right place at the right time, or something else?





	1. A Saviour in a Leather Jacket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon here is definitely dark and twisty. He's also rather cocky, and does some amoral stuff. If that's not your bag, I wouldn't read it.
> 
> Also I do not condone Jon's actions in this story, and I do not condone Sansa's either. Their actions here are not always the best or right actions, and their relationship with each other is not always the healthiest. But, that being said there is a reason why they're drawn to each other, and it's fiction. Anyway, I hope you read and enjoy =)

Sansa stood at the counter of the small coffee shop she worked at, staring down at her phone. Five minutes to lunch break. Five minutes that would feel like an eternity. She huffed at the clock on the lock screen, willing for the minute to change, for it to hit 12:30. She had been up late studying for an exam last night, and then had gone to her boyfriend’s place afterwards. Needless to say, her patience was running thin.

This morning she hadn’t had time to shower or eat breakfast, having been thoroughly distracted by her boyfriend, Harry Hardyng. She had tried to desperately run her fingers through her long, auburn hair, trying to tie it into some semblance of a braid, having forgot her hairbrush when she went to see him the previous night. She’d forgotten her toothbrush too, but that’s what gum is for, right? Sansa ran her hands raggedly over her face, wondering how she had let herself fall so far off course.

Harry was two years older than her, in his final year at UC Berkeley. He was on the football team, and undeniably handsome. All her friends were jealous that she had snagged such a catch. _If they only knew how dull everything else is about him_, she thought idly.

He was kind enough, she supposed. But kindness only goes so far when everything about Harry was like buttered toast. Sure, it’s good when your stomach is upset, but gods is it dull if it’s all you have.

Sansa was pulled from her thoughts by a customer tapping on the counter.

“I’ll have a two shot Americano, and please leave room for milk.” The lady in front of her said expediently. Sansa nodded and rang the order through the machine.

“Of course, that’ll be $3.50,” she said as pleasantly as she could muster. The woman thrust a crisp 5-dollar bill onto the counter.

“Keep the change, looks like you need it.” The woman left the queue and opted to wait by the espresso machine. _Looks like I need it? Christ, I must look a mess._ Sansa chewed her lip in dismay as she pulled the espresso shots into the cup, filling it with hot water.

“Two shot Americano,” Sansa sung out as she placed it on the bar for the woman. “Have a great day!” She called out as the woman walked over to the milk. The woman looked back at her sympathetically.

“You too honey. Try to get some sleep.”

Sansa looked at her reflection in the shiny steel of the espresso machine. Sure, her hair was disheveled, and maybe her blouse was a little wrinkled from lying on the floor last night. Maybe there were some small black circles under her eyes, and maybe her makeup was a little hastily done, but did she really look that bad? Had it even been worth it?

Harry had kept her up til 3 am, and she hadn't even come. Even now, she felt that hollow ache inside. He was handsome and kind, a perfect gentleman. He was almost too kind, too gentle, too considerate. How do you tell a guy that? How do you tell him he needs to grab your hair, or call you a dirty girl, or spank you to get off? No, she couldn’t tell him that - she couldn’t tell _anyone_ that - and he’d never try on his own, gods love him.

They’d been dating for six months and had been intimate for four of those months. Four long months of unrequited orgasms, and him whispering quietly in her ear that he loved her when he came. _Does he even notice that I don’t say it back?_ Sansa wondered, looking at her blurry, distorted face in the machine. The face looked back at her, garish and implacable. It was like it was taunting her. _He notices, and it’s only a matter of time before he leaves too, _it seemed to say.

The clock on her phone chirped, and Sansa began to untie the smock, looking around for her coworker, Margaery. She was a kind, bubbly girl the same age as Sansa, but she went to UCSF, whereas Sansa went to UC Berkeley. Her soft brown curls always hung in perfect ringlets, whereas Sansa struggled to tie her thick auburn hair back into a braid most mornings. The thought of spending an hour curling her hair every morning made Sansa feel ill, and standing beside Margaery often made her feel inadequate. It would be easy to hate Marg if she wasn’t so kind.

“Hey girl, I can take over!” She called out, bubbly as ever. When she got closer, she tucked her arm in Sansa’s, leaning in close. “You look tired, Sansa. Did Harry keep you up all night?” She winked, tying her own smock around her neck.

Sansa felt her cheeks redden and looked down at her pristinely white Keds._ At least something about me is clean._ “Something like that,” she mumbled, grabbing her phone.

Margaery cocked an eyebrow, narrowing her eyes. “Sansa, please tell me he finally… you know… got you up the mountain top?” Sansa felt her cheeks redden even further. She’d regretted instantly the moment she had told Margaery of the Harry dilemma, though Marg seemed to understand better than anyone.

_“We all need a little fire in our lives, Sans,”_ she had said slyly. _“Why else would so many of us travel to Dorne?”_

Sansa sighed, washing her hands, and threw her smock under the counter. “I wish Marg, I wish. That would make things so much less complicated.”

Marg only shook her head slowly from side to side, a sympathetic look upon her face. _Not pity, please gods, not pity._ Sansa practically ran from the coffee shop, desperate to remove herself from that terrible feeling of inadequacy, of sad eyes on her.

These moments always brought her back there, back to the hospital waiting room. There was the acrid smell of cleaning supplies and vomit in the air, blood on her hands, and a nurse with her hand on Sansa’s shoulder. _It’s not your fault, it’s not your fault sweetling_. Her eyes were like ice, hard and unyielding, a sympathy that never covered her face entirely, false and pitying. _I didn’t need it then, and I don’t need it now_, she thought coldly, practically slamming the door behind her.

Sansa began to walk to the sandwich shop on autopilot, trying not to think of Harry fucking Hardyng and his perfect sandy blonde hair, and his perfect fucking life. Instead, she started to check her emails, hoping to have received her midterm grades. She had changed her major to History this year, hoping for a fresh start, and some better grades. _New degree, new me_, she had thought at the time, hoping she could wipe all her self-hatred and mistakes away.

Her head was down as she crossed into the intersection, trusting in the pedestrian walking sign, and hell bent on a large pizza sub to take the sting of her failures away.

She heard the car honking before anything else. It was so close, closer than any honk she had ever heard before. So close, it had to be right next to her. _Oh no, no, please gods, no._

From that moment, everything else seemed to happen in slow motion, disconnected and disjointed. Was that her in the crosswalk, or some other girl? Some other, stupid girl who had crossed a street with her head down. _Stupid, stupid girl, _she chastised the girl below her, floating above. _Is this what an out of body experience is? Is this how I’m going to die? With my hair uncombed, and my teeth unbrushed, wearing yesterday’s panties?_

She was frozen in place, unable to move. The car was barrelling towards her, fractions of seconds felt like minutes, spread out before her like an elastic stretching, stretching, further and further away. The honk of the car still blared in the background, but it was almost like a siren song, calling her to something. _It’s calling you to move! MOVE SANSA, MOVE!!_

But her body wouldn’t listen to her brain, she was frozen in place.

Suddenly, there was a blur of black flashing past her eyes, and she felt herself being pushed out of the middle of the street. In an instant the elastic snapped, and she fell back to her body, to reality. She was lying on the road, her hands and elbows scuffed. Her knees and her hip hurt too, but she was alive. _How?_

Sansa sat up, disoriented and hazy. Her head was pounding, and she blushed fiercely at the crowd of people gathered to gawk at the redhead who doesn’t even know how to use a crosswalk. It was then she noticed the man lying on the street next to her, clad in a leather jacket. _The flash of black..._

His own hands were worse than her own, scratched and bleeding. Thankfully, the jacket and his dark blue jeans seemed to have helped him absorb the blow. He was lying on the road, his head resting on the asphalt. Errant dark brown curls hung from his face covering it, but Sansa could see a beard underneath. _Gods, he’s handsome_, she thought, unbiddenly.

Handsome, and dark, and wearing a leather jacket. A man who’d save the life of a stranger, a man who looked kind, and maybe a bit dangerous too? Or was that just the jacket? Sansa wasn’t sure. She found herself biting her lip, then snorted in exasperation at herself.

_Keep it in your pants, Sansa, you almost just died._

The man looked up at her, slowly raising himself up from the road. He placed his hands on the road for support, then winced at the pain of it. They both looked down at his bleeding hands, before he gave up, and sat up, letting his hands fall helplessly into his lap.

“You saved my life,” Sansa breathed out, looking the man in his eyes, through the long ringlets that fell over his face, obscuring it. But she could still see them, dark grey and piercing. Like they saw her, every part, intimately. Like she was a deer and he was a wolf, like he knew every bad idea she’d ever had, every mistake she’d ever made, like he could make it better.

He let out a dry laugh, the corners of his mouth pulling into a slight smile. “Someone had to.” His voice was rich and deep, like honey and whisky taken in turn.

“I could be dead. I would be dead.” She paused. “You saved my life.” The throng of people had begun to dissipate, no longer interested. The car that had almost hit her was long gone, and now there were just honks of the cars beckoning them off the road.

The man stood, wobbling, unsteady on his feet. Sansa rushed forward, and let his arm wrap over her shoulders for support. He was so close, almost skin to skin. She could smell him, leather and pine trees. _Aftershave?_ She wondered. _Or cologne?_ Something about the man didn’t scream cologne though. “You’re hurt,” she remarked, still stunned, trying to lead him to a bench to sit.

The man smiled once more, this time wider. “Surprisingly, diving in front of cars to save pretty girls lends itself to some bumps and bruises,” he quipped.

Sansa blushed and laughed at the same time. _He called me pretty. He’s pretty too though. Maybe he’d prefer handsome. _“What is the name of my knight in shining armour?”

“Jon.” He tried to reach his hand up to pull the hair from his face, but then looked at his bloody hands, and placed them back down. “Jon Snow.”

Sansa repressed the urge to pull the hair from his face for him, repressed the urge to let her fingers wander to those soft, pouty lips. She looked back at his eyes, dark and full of mirth. Clearly, he had noticed her staring. Why did that make something deep within her stir so much? Why was her heart beating so fast?

She cleared her throat, swallowing thickly. “My name is Sansa Stark. Thank you. You know, for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome. Maybe don’t make a habit of this though? Not sure I’ll be here next time,” he joked, looking around at the corner, almost distractedly.

“Oh, sorry. Did you have somewhere to be today? Are you going to be okay getting around?” She looked at his hands as he tried to flex them, and abruptly stopped, wincing in pain.

“It’s gonna be a bit tough,” he gritted out, gesturing to a black Ducati. “That’s my ride.”

_Of course he rides a motorcycle. Of course. _Sansa almost rolled her eyes. _Now if he only treats you like shit, he’d be your perfect type._ But he hadn’t, he had saved her life, and he was looking at her now calmly, almost reverently. It was disarming and intriguing at the same time.

“I work at that café right there. We have a first aid kit. I could patch you up before you go?” She asked, her cheeks flushing as she noted that his eyes creased when he smiled, and it was adorable.

“You some kind of doctor or something, Sansa Stark?” He said skeptically.

“Well no, history major actually.”

Jon groaned audibly. “Gods help me, a history major is going to perform minor surgery on me.” There was a sing-song quality to his voice, letting her know he was teasing her.

“I’ll have you know I am first aid certified, Jon Snow. You could at least let me try? Least I could do after you saved my life.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” he acquiesced, standing up slowly. Sansa walked with him back to the café, opening the door for him and leading him to the back room. As they passed by, Marg gave her a single, long stare, one eyebrow cocked as it always did when she knew too much. The shit-eating grin plastered on her face didn’t help either.

Sansa led him to the kitchen area, sitting him down in a plastic chair set around a stale brown table. The room was flooded with cold fluorescent light, and Sansa felt as though she were on display, open and exposed. Jon looked around at the microwave, the rather ironic coffee maker, the small stainless-steel sink. She walked to the counter, opening a cupboard, and grabbed the first aid kit from it.

Placing it carefully on the table, she unlatched the plastic tub, and opened it up. “We’ll need tweezers, scissors, antiseptic wipes, and gauze,” she said, more to herself, but also because the silence was killing her.

“I’m in your steady hands, Stark,” he said, smiling wolfishly, amused at her. Something about that smile made her feel like she were in his thrall, and she tried to ignore how that made her feel. _Like there is a jackrabbit in my chest where my heart should be, that the air in here is unbearably hot, that I’d let him devour me, and love it. _Sansa unconsciously rubbed her thighs together for friction. She didn’t miss his eyebrow ticking upwards in interest, didn’t miss the twitch in his lip.

“Put your hands on the table, palms up,” she instructed, wielding the tweezers.

He began to smirk, looking her directly in the eyes, dark grey piercing into bright blue. “Anything for you, just don’t take advantage of me in this helpless state.” He licked his lips, drawing her attention to them. _He’s doing this on purpose. He’s flirting with me?_

“Ladies don’t take advantage of their saviours, I assure you.”

“Are you a lady, Stark?” He asked, deep and gravelly. She blushed once more, feeling her breathing quicken. _Is he flirting, or taunting me? Is it both?_

“What else would I be?” She countered, opening his palm to her before he could reply. “This is going to hurt.” She picked the dirt from his palms carefully, pausing whenever he winced.

“Christ, normally I have a girl buy me a drink before I let her hurt me this bad,” he gritted out.

She snorted out a laugh. The guy was funny, she had to give him that. “I’m almost done. Don’t be a baby, it’s a bit of a turn-off for girls.” She froze, as he tilted his head towards her in interest. “For future reference, Jon,” she supplied, trying to save face. _I’m not flirting, not with you. I have a boyfriend, Harry fucking Hardyng. Ugh._

Sansa wiped his palms with the rubbing alcohol, causing him to rapidly suck air in, trying to stifle his pain. She carefully wrapped his hands in gauze, noting the spark that passed between them when their fingers touched. The air was stifling in the room now, and his eyes were burning holes into her. She secured the gauze into place. “There,” she said triumphantly when she was done.

“Feels right as rain," He replied, flexing each hand carefully in turn.

“Are you sure you’re okay to ride your bike? Doesn’t seem safe.” 

“I’ve been through worse, Dr. Stark.” Somehow, the idea that he had been hurt worse than this, and still rode his bike was enticing. _Because you like the wrong guys, _the voice in her head told her. It also told her to run from Jon as fast as she could, yet she sat there in place, her hands still on the gauze and scissors.

“Guess this is tit for tat, then?” He asked, making to get up and go.

“Wait.” She paused, biting her lip. “Let me at least buy you a meal, as a thank you for saving my life.”

“Are you asking to take me out for a date, Stark?”

Sansa’s cheeks flushed bright red, so red he must have seen, because he began to chuckle. “No, No!” She stammered. “I have a boyfriend. I just meant, as a thank you.”

“Of course… figures,” he said, looking down and flexing once more, wincing less than before.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Girls like you always have boyfriends.” 

“Girls like me?” She asked, beginning to get annoyed.

“You got that feel to you, the kind of girl that every guy falls in love with, even when they shouldn’t.” He pulled away from her hands, standing up. “Can you grab my phone? It’s in my back pocket.”

“You - you want me to reach into your back pocket to get your phone?” She stammered.

“Yeah. I kind of like these jeans, and blood’s hard to get out of fabric. I won’t tell if you want to cop a feel though too.”

Sansa gulped, hard, while he smiled knowingly at her. _He’s practically a god damn Cheshire cat. _

“I’m kidding Sansa. Please?” The façade had finally broken, the bravado leaked from his face. In one way it was a relief, and in another, a vague disappointment. She put a pin in that particular dichotomy to dissect with her therapist.

_“You’re looking for a man who’ll play dual roles for you, Mrs. Stark. A man to be your protector, and your father figure. But this man needs to be strong and powerful, and that’s why you pick men who are too cocky, too headstrong, too violent.” _

_And that’s why I chose Harry Hardying instead, this time, _she thought, shaking her head. And how had that turned out for her? Sansa wondered if she could shake her head hard enough to push it all out. She sighed, and stood up, walking behind Jon. She reached her hand into the fabric and let her hand slide carefully into his back pocket.

The jeans were tight, and she could feel the hardness of his butt through the jeans. _His ass is nicer than mine_, she thought heatedly, an image of gripping that bare ass, while wrapping her legs around those hips flashing through her mind. She wondered if all of him was this hard, that muscled. She quickly threaded her hand into the pocket and retrieved his phone, flushing red as she handed it to him.

“Like what you felt?” He asked, the bravado back in full force. Sansa felt heat trickle down her back. _Why is he hotter when he talks like this? Why is he hotter when I want to hate him? _

“I’ve felt better,” she demurred. “Do you want me to put my number in your phone?”

He typed something quickly on his phone and passed the unlocked phone to her. “If you don’t mind. I took the liberty of starting the entry for you.”

Sansa looked down at the phone address book entry, at the name he had filled in.

**Dr. Stark**

“Just for that, I’m going to get a doctorate in History,” she ground out, as she changed it. He snorted in amusement.

**Sansa Stark**

She typed in her number and passed the phone back to him. He typed something, then handed it back to her.

**Hot Girl Whose Life I Saved and She Kind of Owes Me**

Sansa laughed out loud, trying to grab at the phone. He moved it from her reach before she could react and typed something once more. Sansa felt her own phone buzz and checked it.

**<Unknown Number> **So when are you gonna buy me dinner?

“I take it that’s you?” She asked, smiling.

“Unless you owe some other guys dinner as well.”

Sansa bit her lip, packing up the first aid kit. What would Harry think? Would he even care? Somehow, she didn't care even if he did. “How about tomorrow night?” She asked, reaching up to put the kit back in the cupboard, letting her shirt creep up ever so slightly, exposing her soft, pale stomach to the cool air.

In an instant, she felt hot breath against her neck, a gauzed hand brushed past her bare stomach to grab the counter. _Was that an accident, or on purpose?_

“I’ll text you the time and place.” His voice was soft and heavy against her ear. She could smell him again, felt him inches from her own body, invading her space in the most delightful way. “See you tomorrow, Stark.”

With that he was gone, from her space, from the room, from the café.

_Til tomorrow, Snow._

* * *


	2. Dangerous Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon go for a very engaging dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the great feedback so far everyone! It's so nice to know people are reading and enjoying! I know I said every three days for the first few chapters, but this one is just sitting here and I have no self control.
> 
> It's been all Sansa so far, but you're going to get a little bit of Jon's POV at the end here now. Hopefully I'm starting to justify that !Dark Jon tag ;)

Sansa left the break room kitchen flustered and confused. In the past half hour, she had almost died, been saved by a hot guy who had appeared out of nowhere, and now she was going on what was most definitely not a date with him tomorrow. _It’s not a date. It’s not a date!_ But every time she told herself that, she felt her stomach twist, and the skin on her stomach still tingled from where his hands had brushed against it, like she was branded.

"You okay Sansa?" Marg asked, both amused and concerned. "Who was kind of tall, definitely dark and handsome?"

Sansa looked down at her dirty clothes, at the scuffs on her jeans from her fall, at the scratches on her hands and elbows. "He saved my life. I almost got hit by a car crossing the street, and he pushed me out of the way just in time." She unconsciously touched her fingers to her stomach, where he had grazed past her. "He saved my life."

Marg scoffed slightly. "Who'd have thought that the knight in shining armour would wear so much black. And be so hot. Gods you're lucky."

Sansa pulled her smock from under the counter. _Yeah, lucky...._

"Lucky would have been not almost getting hit at all."

"Then you never would have met him. It's like fate or something, like a fairy tale," Marg countered.

Sansa twisted her mouth up. It didn't feel like a fairy tale. Knights in shining armour didn't flirt and taunt like Jon Snow. Knights in shining armour were gallant and handsome and safe. That wasn't Jon, and she was thankful for that. Sansa bit her lip, thinking about his smell, his soft brown hair, those eyes. And he had felt strong, like he worked with his hands.

Sansa took a sip of water to steady her thoughts.

"Gods he's so hot, Sans," Marg said, watching him hop on his bike through the cafe window. "Wonder if he could make you come."

Sansa sputtered, choking on her water.

_Somehow, I think he'd have no trouble._

"I'm taking him to dinner tomorrow as a thank you," Sansa said, biting her lip again, lost in thought. What would it be like to ride on that bike with him, to straddle it and feel its warmth? To curl up closer with her arms around his chest? To know she was in just a little bit of danger...

"What's Harry going to think about that?"

Sansa broke away from her thoughts. "Hmm?"

Marg chuckled, shaking her head. "Harry? Your boyfriend?"

"Oh.” She frowned. “I'm not sure he'd care, honestly."

Marg arched her eyebrow, letting her head tilt downwards in reproach. "You need to figure your shit out girl. Some of us have no boyfriends, and here you have two gorgeous guys fawning over you. Granted I'd take Jon over Harry any day, but still..."

Sansa blushed and turned away, furiously cleaning the counter.

_What if I said me too?_

* * *

It was 11pm when Jon Snow texted her once more. She had just gotten out of the shower, thankful to finally be able to wash away the day. _Wash away Harry_, that terrible, terrible voice said in her head. She was carefully drying her hair, so she wouldn’t have to wash it again tomorrow before class. At first, she didn’t hear the ding of her phone over the noise of the blowdryer, but she soon grew bored and picked it up, hoping to scroll a bit through Instagram to distract her from her own terrible thoughts.

**Jon **– Dinner at Harris’s tomorrow night, 8pm, your treat

She stared at the message, part of her furious at his gall, an equal part absolutely enthralled. If she was being honest with herself, she would have noted the smile plastered on her face, but she wasn’t, and she didn’t. Instead, she huffed, and bit her lip.

**Sansa** – Harris’s?? You know I’m a student, right?

**Jon** \- A student that's alive, ‘cause of me. I'm having steak and lobster btw. Both your treat ;)

Sansa huffed and clicked off the blowdryer, and laid down on her bed. It was plush and soft, fit for a queen. Her mother had always said there were two things you never skimp on; a bed, and shoes. Sansa had taken those words to heart and had bought herself a king size bed as soon as she moved into her apartment in San Francisco.

It had been no easy challenge hauling it up the two-story walk-up, as it was located in an old century home. The stairs were narrow and steep, and it had taken her brother Robb and sister Arya at the top of the stairs pulling, and her at the bottom pushing to get it all the way up. Their mom had stood at the foot of the stairs barking out orders, helping them get the angle of the mattress right. Sansa smiled, thinking of that happy memory, an island in the rolling ocean of her life.

**Sansa** \- You make a hard bargain…

**Sansa** \- see you there at 8

**Jon** \- Can't wait

Sansa looked up at the ceiling of the apartment where she had been living for the past two years. At first, it had been lonely and scary. She had grown up as one of three siblings and having a room to yourself was a rarity back then. If it wasn’t Arya running around playing with broom swords, then it was Robb and his friends hanging out and watching TV or playing video games. She grew up with noise being the default, and the silence of her apartment had been deafening at first.

These days she enjoyed the peace, it gave her time to think. Right now though, her thoughts were a mess thinking about her near miss, a discombobulated car cruising to her, chrome and rubber and asphalt.

But also pine and sweat and leather...

Even worse, all she could see when she closed her eyes were those dark, piercing eyes staring back at her, his words echoing in her mind.

_Like what you felt?_

She fell asleep, uncomfortable and hot, tangled in her sheets.

* * *

It was almost 6pm by the time Sansa made it back to her apartment from her classes. Mondays were her longest day, and she had had to suffer through four course lectures, punctuated by assignments and essay writing. The only highlight had been Marg’s indecent text messages that had arrived judiciously throughout the day.

**Marg **– What are you going to wear tonight?

**Marg **– I wonder what he’s going to wear… Hope it’s that leather jacket again ;)

And worst of all;

**Marg **– Does Harry know where you’re going tonight? Does he even know what happened yesterday?

That one hurt Sansa more than she could admit. It hurt because she knew what she was doing was wrong. It hurt because the thought had never even crossed her mind to tell Harry that she had almost died yesterday, or at least gotten very hurt. _Aren’t these the things that we’re supposed to tell the ones we love?_

She had talked to him though, when they went for lunch together. She had ordered a salad, saving room for dinner, and had sat there in front of him picking at the sad leaves of lettuce.

He had been so happy to see her, so full of joy and carefree, telling her about how amazing practice had been last night, how he had scored a touchdown. Sansa looked into his bright blue eyes, so similar to her own, animated with his story. _He’s a good man, maybe not the brightest bulb, but he’s kind and decent._

He had reached out to hold her hand in his, asking her how her day had been.

_I’ve been thinking about another man all day. I’m having dinner with him tonight. It’s platonic. Except... I don’t think it is. _

“I’m just a bit tired,” she had replied. “Trying to save energy for dinner tonight.”

“Who are you going with?” He had asked conversationally.

“A friend that I owe a dinner as a thank you.”

He hadn’t asked for any clarification, and that spoke volumes to her.

Sansa stood in front of her closet, trying to decide what to wear. Harris’s was a nice restaurant, but the roadrash on her hip and elbows didn’t really scream class. She decided on midnight blue jeans and a lacy blue top that had buttons fastening it in place all the way up in the back, paired with wedge heels.

Though she was tall, she almost always wore heels, loving the feeling of her height. When she was younger, it had made her uncomfortable, unsure of herself. She had been teased for being so tall. But now, now it felt like power, and she wanted that tonight. There was a secret thrill in thinking that maybe she would be taller than him in her heels, that maybe tonight she’d have the upper hand.

Sansa hopped into a cab, set to arrive ten minutes early. Her phone dinged almost immediately.

**Jon **– Why do I just know you’re going to be there early?

Sansa felt her face break into a small smile and bit her lip.

**Sansa** – There’s nothing wrong with being punctual, I expect you to do the same

**Jon** – What would you do if I showed up late?

Before she could reply, her phone dinged again.

**Jon** – Would you punish me?

She felt her cheeks flush, felt her toes curl inside the heels. _Now that was definitely flirting._

**Sansa **– Yes

**Sansa **– By leaving.

**Jon **– I better be on time then. You are a cruel woman, Stark

True to her nature, Sansa was seated in a plush chair at the circular wood table before Jon showed up. He wasn’t really late though, he came in at exactly 8:01, almost as if he timed it. She wondered if he had waited outside the restaurant just so he could test her, make her wait.

The restaurant itself was gorgeous, just dark enough to be intimate just small enough to be cozy. Music played softly in the background, but faded from her periphery as soon as she saw him walk in.

His dark hair was tied back, and he was wearing crisp dark jeans, dress shoes, and a dark blue button-up, peeking out from under that damn leather jacket. Sansa curled her toes once more in anticipation, thought of how it would feel to take the tie from his hair, and free those wild curls._ Don't even go there._

“You clean up well,” She said, her voice lower than it should have been.

“So do you, or at least more than you did yesterday. Tell me Stark, had you even brushed your hair yesterday when I met you?” He sat down in the chair across from her, those damn eyes searing into her.

She looked down at the menu, blushing. “Not really.”

He chuckled, and cocked his head to the side, trying to catch her gaze. “I feel like there's a story there…”

“One you won't get,” she countered curtly, trying to busy herself with the menu.

He leaned forward, lowering his voice until it was barely a rumble in his chest. “So it's embarrassing then. Bad sex, or mind-blowing sex? Could only be one or the other to leave you like that yesterday, and red as this today.”

He was smirking at her, like he knew the answer. All she could do was try to hide her frown behind the menu, and hope he didn’t see.

“Bad then, yeah?” He leaned back, and picked up the menu. He glanced at it before he tilted it down and caught her gaze again. “That's really a shame Sansa... Good girls like you deserve better,” he drawled, his voice thick and dark. _Oh gods, what have I done coming here. _Yet she was hooked, she hated him and hated this, and loved it at the same time.

True to his word, he ordered the steak and lobster, and sure enough, it was the most expensive thing on the menu. Sansa figured she may as well do the same. After all it was her treat, and then at least they’d both leave happy and full. She tried not to think about how she'll be eating ramen for the next month to pay it off. Somehow, it all felt worth it.

“So tell me about yourself, Sansa. Where did you grow up?” He asked, cutting a thick piece of steak and depositing it in his mouth. She tried not to focus on the way his tongue peeked out to lick juice off his lips.

“I grew up in Sacramento, lived there all my life before moving here.”

“When did you move to San Francisco?”

“Two years ago, when I started at UC Berkeley.”

She stopped to extract her lobster tail from its cracked shell, and dipped into a generous bowl of lemon butter. She moaned slightly when it reached her mouth, relishing in the sweetness of the meat, and the salty tang of the butter. She looked up to see him watching her intently, eyes dark as sin.

“Your parents must be proud you went to Berkeley, it’s a great school.”

Sansa looked down at her plate and gulped, taking a deep breath. “Just my mom actually. My dad died when I was younger.” _No one wants the whole story, Sansa. Stick to half truths, short stories, or you’ll scare him away. _

Jon sucked in a careful breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it happened a long time ago.” She tried to change the subject as quick as she could. “Where did you grow up, Jon?”

He stuffed another piece of steak in his mouth, and smiled, pointing at his full mouth and shrugging. Sansa rolled her eyes, and took a healthy swig of her wine.

“Here and there, but mostly here in San Francisco.”

“Haven’t you ever wanted to leave?”

He shrugged. “I guess everything I need is here. How many damsels in distress do you think there are in Sacramento?” He joked, and she laughed lightly with him.

“What do you do for work? Or do you go to school?”

Jon raised an eyebrow at her. “Do I look like I’m in school? Nah, I never went to university or college, didn’t see the point. No offense, Dr. Stark.”

Sansa stabbed into her steak haughtily. “I fail to see how I couldn’t take offense to that.”

Jon ran his hands through his hair uncomfortably, stopping when he realized it was tied up, and sighing exasperated. “I just mean, no point for me. I’m not the smartest guy, but I’m really good with my hands.” _I bet you are._ Her mind drifted to their calloused roughness, to the spark she had felt when his touched hers.

She was fixated on his hands, and the gauze that was still wrapped neatly around them. “How are your hands?”

“They’re doing much better, thanks to your first aid skills yesterday.” He smiled genuinely this time, widely and happily, the edges of his eyes creasing together. It was a good smile, a kind smile. 

_Who is Jon Snow? _she thought, as he continued to deflect his answers, pulling her own life story from her lips simultaneously.

* * *

**Jon**

He was at dinner with Sansa Stark. After all this waiting, all this time. It was unreal, unbelievable. But it was real. He couldn’t stop himself from grinning, knowing he must look a fool.

He had only ever meant to watch her, watch over her, keep her safe. Safe from herself and the problems that gravitated towards her. He only meant to ward off the guys who'd hurt her, use her. There’d been so many it was hard to understand how she had any hope at all left.

But when that car had come zooming around that corner from nowhere, what was he supposed to do, let her get hurt? He wouldn't, he couldn't. And now she'd seen him, and he was trying so hard to be what she wanted. And gods, it was working too.

After all, that's why he'd bought the bike and the jacket last year. Was it a little pathetic that it was all for her? Sure, but it was the truth.

He watched her stuff morsels of lobster into her mouth, licking butter from her lips. She seemed so happy, finally. He’d make sure she’d never be sad again, not like before.

He’d been determined to leave her alone, let her live her life, let her be with Harry fucking Hardying. Except, he’d found out recently that perfect little Harry was fucking the head cheerleader behind Sansa’s back. _She really knows how to pick them._ He shook his head.

_Someday, I'll show you what love really is._

When they were finished eating, Sansa went to the bathroom. He watched her stand and walk away, staring at her ass the entire time. It was tight, like yoga and pilates and squats on the weekends tight. He felt himself bite his lip, thinking of all the ways he’d like to see those legs and that ass…

She turned, and saw him staring, and _gods_, _she’s winking at me. _Jon groaned audibly, adjusting his rapidly tightening jeans.

When the waiter came to collect their plates, he discreetly slipped the waiter his credit card while she was gone. "It'll all be on this card when we're done. Don't let her pay," he said with a smile on his face. The waiter nodded, smiling back.

He wasn't rich, but he wasn't doing bad either. Turns out construction workers get paid real well and are in high demand. He’d fallen into the job two years ago when he first moved to San Francisco, having no other job, no money, and no place to stay. At the time, it seemed a better option than homelessness. Now, though, he loved the feeling of building real, tangible things, and being able to work out his frustrations physically at the same time. And Jon had _many_ frustrations to work out, Sansa being the main one.

Sansa came back and sat down demurely in her seat. She was a walking contradiction. A perfect lady, prim and proper, and simultaneously there was something darker, deep down. He knew it was there, he had seen it before, on a couple occasions, and it had thrilled him each and every time. The thing about Sansa Stark was that she wanted everyone to think that she was a good girl, but hated it whenever she was one. _Happy to oblige, Miss Stark._

“Dessert?” He asked, handing her a menu.

“I shouldn’t,” she said, biting her lip.

“I think you should. We can share one if you want?”

She blushed, the pinkness extending to that pretty neck of hers. “I don’t think that would be… appropriate.”

“Well I wouldn't want to make you fall into impropriety, Stark,” he quipped, smirking.

The waiter came by. “Anything else I can get for you two?”

Jon pointed at the dessert menu. “Can we get one slice of the chocolate ganache cake, and a slice of the lemon meringue pie? And can I have a scotch?”

Jon looked at Sansa, who sat there looking surprised, but also pleasantly happy.

“What kind of scotch, sir?”

“Johnnie walker blue, rocks on the side. Anything to drink for you, Sansa?”

She fixed her eyes on him, eyes narrowed, challenging. “I’ll have the same.”

_Challenge accepted._

When the waiter had collected their menus and left, Jon leaned in closer to Sansa, dropping his voice an octave.

“Didn't think girls like you drink scotch.”

Sansa leaned in, eyes still narrowed in defiance, accepting the challenge as well. “You'd be surprised what girls like me do.”

Jon cocked an eyebrow, thinking about all the things he knew she did, all the things he wanted her to do, with him. “Enlighten me.”

She faltered, not wanting to break past the boundaries. She looked down at the freshly deposited scotch in front of her, and took a dainty sip. “Well I drink scotch,” she replied, smiling.

“That's a freebie, doesn't count.” He took a long, languid sip of the scotch, savouring the peaty flavour. “See, good girls like you like to test the limits, but you never really push past them.” He knew he was getting under her skin, he could see her grip on the glass tightening, her nostrils flaring slightly.

“I'm not that good of a girl.”

He licked his lips, made the decision to go in for the kill, push the limits. 

“I find that hard to believe.” He leaned in closer. “You'll have to prove it to me.”

Sansa huffed and rolled her eyes, but Jon could see her chest rising and falling faster than it had before. “What do you want me to do?” She asked, feigning disinterest.

“Gods, Sansa, you can't talk like that. Gives a guy the wrong idea.”

She laughed, and leaned back in her chair. “Not that, but anything else,” she said, her cheeks flushed.

_Go in for the kill. _“Anything else?”

She twisted her mouth in thought. “Within reason.”

He let out a crisp bark of laughter, clearly frustrating her. “See? Limits.” He gestured, making a line along the table in front of them.

“What do you want me to do?” She asked, pretending that she was annoyed, when they both knew she was rubbing her thighs together under the table. He could see her pupils dilating, her chest heaving. She was intoxicating.

Jon leaned forward as far as the table would allow him, careful to note when they were relatively alone. He lowered his voice to a growl. “Go into the bathroom and take your panties off. You don't need to show them to me, or give them to me, I'll know if you did it or not.”

She sat back, a look of feigned horror on her face. “I'm not doing that,” she chirped out.

“Right, cause you're a good girl, aren’t you Stark?”

Her nostrils flared again. “No, it’s because I barely know you.”

He sat back, swirling his scotch in it’s glass, smiling. “You’re wearing jeans, no one else will know what you’ve done. Hell, some girls always go commando.” He shrugged. “But suit yourself, I'm not making you do anything.”

_We both know you’re going to do it. Sansa Stark doesn’t back down, Sansa Stark doesn’t lose. _

She bit her lip, and pushed her chair out, hands gripped tightly on the arms of her chair. He stared at her ass again when she walked away, mapping her curves.

She came back flushed, embarrassed, her eyes dark with something… desire? _Interesting._

“Maybe you're not a good girl after all,” he supplied as she sat back down.  
  
She flushed further, and yet, looked almost proud of herself, and happy to receive his praise. _Even more interesting. _

Jon felt himself growing hard again, and tried to readjust, tried to take his mind away from the thought of Sansa Stark bent over his knee, keening for him to spank her, desperate for his praise. The only question was whether she liked to be called a good girl, or a bad girl. He hoped he’d get the answer soon.

When they finished their scotch, Jon got up to go to the bathroom, feeling relaxed and rather cocky. When he looked back, he was happy to see that Sansa had peeked over her shoulder to check him out. _This day keeps getting better,_ he thought, letting out a snort of appreciation.

After he was done, he came back to see a _very _angry Sansa looking at him, her arms crossed. _Why does she look so hot when she’s angry?_

“You already paid??” She asked defiantly.

He smiled, and sat back down, taking his time answering her. “Cause I knew you'd try to while I was gone.”

“But you said it was my treat.”

“I lied. If I would've insisted on paying, would you have come?”

She faltered, her face relaxing slightly. “Probably not. It'd be too much like a.... Like a…”

“Like a date? God forbid the college girl dates the construction worker.”

“That's not what I meant. All I meant is I already have a boyfriend,” she supplied, fidgeting in her seat.

_Hook, line, sinker. _

“You know you've told me all about yourself and your family tonight Stark, and you're sitting here with no panties on I should add, but you haven't even mentioned this guys name.”

“His name is Harry. Harry Hardying.”

“Does Harry know you’re here? With me?” He tilted his head to catch her gaze again, determined to see how they affected each other.

“He didn't really ask.”

“And you didn't tell him. I think you might deserve better, Sansa, and I think you know it too.”

She scoffed at him incredulously. “And you're better?”

“I bet I'm better than Harry Hardying at least.”

Sansa smiled, biting her lip, and countered right back at him. “Small praise.” Jon raised his eyebrow at her. _Does she know she just made fun of me by dissing her own boyfriend?_

“Do you think I'm better Sansa?” He asked, letting his voice rumble in his chest, letting his eyes roam her body, and center on her lips.

“I'm not sure. But I'm not a cheater,”she said, crossing her arms.

“Good, neither am I.” He laughed when she cocked her own eyebrow at him. This was a dangerous game. “Friends?”

“Friends...” She let the word roll over her tongue experimentally. 

She rose from her seat, getting ready to leave. The restaurant had closed half an hour ago, and the staff were staring at them with eyes like daggers.

He put his hand on the small of her back, leading her from the restaurant, letting his fingers trail under the open fabric to her bare skin. He felt the goosebumps rise, felt her shudder and lean into his touch.

He couldn't help himself. He leaned in and whispered in her ear. “You know, some friends let their friends kiss them.”

She extracted herself coyly and laughed at him. “Not my friends.”

“Can't blame a guy for trying. Can I give you a ride home? Wouldn’t want to make you walk all that way by yourself.”

She paused at the door, looking at him with an incredulous look on her face. “How do you know I live far from here?”

_Fuck fuck fuck. Think fast Snow_. "This isn't really a residential area, and it's far from campus, just a guess."

Eyebrows furrow, then release. "On that deathtrap?"

Jon smiles, throwing the extra helmet he had thoughtfully brought with him at her. “You might like it.”

Jon sat on the bike, gesturing for her to do the same. Sansa reluctantly sat behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Her arms held him tightly, and she was warm against his back. Warm and soft, and here for real, finally. He said a silent thanks to the gods. _Sansa Stark. Straddling my bike. In no panties. Gods, I’m hard as a rock._

He pretended to need the directions and took her home, relishing the closeness necessitated by the bike, hoping she secretly liked it too. He stopped in front of her little two-story walkup, and she hopped off the bike, pausing._ I’m not going to kiss her. Not yet. _

“Will I see you around, Sansa?” She looked disappointed. He hated making her wait, but it was the right thing to do. He wouldn’t make Sansa a cheater, not like Harry.

She bit her lip, smiling a cheeky smile. “I haven't decided yet.” With that, she turned around, and ran up the stairs to her apartment.

Jon leaned back in the seat of his bike, looking up at the stars, taking a heavy, deep breath to calm his nerves.

_I love you Sansa Stark. I’ve loved you since I was 16, and I’ll love you til the day I die. Could you ever love me too?_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too much? Not enough? Let me know!


	3. Buttered Toast and Almond Milk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon broods, Sansa asks her mom for advice, Jon and Sansa go for a ride. No not that kind, not yet ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still couldn't hold to my three day wait, but at least I had the self control to wait almost 2 days.

**Jon**

It had taken all his self control not to text Sansa the past couple days. He would stare at his phone, open to Sansa's chat screen, and the last message she had sent. He had received it after he dropped her off at her place after dinner.

**Sansa** – Thanks for dinner tonight, but this means I still owe you!

**Jon** – I know :)

She hadn't replied to him after that, and it killed him, but he couldn't be the one to make the next move.

He worried he had stepped too far, pushed her too far. _I shouldn't have pushed her into taking off her panties, I shouldn't have egged her on._ But it had been so worth it to watch Sansa Stark walking out of that bathroom, knowing her panties were wadded up in her purse.

When he got home that night he had taken himself in hand to relieve some of the tension within him that it had caused. The image of her sitting there demure and proper, legs crossed in that chair across from him, smiling and biting her lip, cheeks slightly flushed was one he would never allow to leave his mind. He wondered if she got as much thrill from it as he did, and he suspected she did.

The only solace he could take from forcing his own predilections on her that night, was that at least he had had the self control not to kiss her. And it had taken everything he had, because he knew he could have done it, could have gotten away with it. But he wouldn't let Harry Hardyng muddy up this thing between them.

This, right now, was his last chance with her. _If I fuck this up, there's no going back, there will be no redo, not this time._

Jon groaned in exasperation and ran his hands through his thick curls of hair. He needed to hit something, badly. Every part of his body itched with anticipation, and no amount of masturbation could scratch this particular itch. He packed his bag for the boxing gym and headed away from his small one-bedroom apartment, giving his white husky Ghost a pat on the head as he left. The dog let out a reproachful grumble and slunk to Jon's bedroom, no doubt to jump on his bed and cover it with fur.

Jon had never had much growing up, and found he needed even less now. When he was younger it was always just him and his mom, and she struggled enough just to put food on the table. No, four walls, a roof, a tv, Ghost, and the gym was all he needed. And Sansa, always Sansa.

It's not like there hadn't been other girls, there had been. More than he'd care to admit, in fact. More than he'd ever tell Sansa. If he told her that, she'd just run.

Girls like Sansa were like that. They looked strong, they acted strong, but they were so afraid of getting burned that they ran at the first sign of trouble. After everything she’d been through though, he couldn’t really blame her. Nevertheless, Jon would not let that happen to him.

It took two hours at the gym to calm his nerves. By the end of his workout, he had soaked through his shirt, and it hung plastered to his skin, outlining the hard muscle underneath. He looked at himself in the mirror of the gym, noting the bags under his eyes.

He'd been losing sleep over Sansa, to other things as well. Things better left in the past, but those dreams he tried not to dwell on, tried to push back down where he'd kept them locked up for years. Instead, he thought about dreams of Sansa's arms around him on his bike, he dreamt of her legs around him in bed, of her soft lips on his own, and what it would be like to watch her fall apart underneath him. He dreamt of so many things, it was hard to get a good night's rest in between.

_Just text her. Just do it. You waited two days. She wants you to make the next move. She needs that right now, while Harry's in the picture. Plausible deniability and all that._

He bit his lip, and slung his bag over his shoulder, walking out of the gym into the cool night air. He took a deep breath. _Now or never._

**Jon** – Care to grace me with your time this Saturday?

**Jon** \- or still mad at me for paying for dinner the other night?

His heart was pounding out of his chest. _Was that the wrong thing to say?_

**Sansa **– Still mad...

_No, no, no._

**Sansa** – could be persuaded.

A wash of relief passed over him, tingles passing from his fingers to his toes. She drove him crazy, like he couldn't control himself with her. But he had to.

**Jon **– Intriguing. What if I promised we'd get you another slice of lemon meringue pie while we're out?

**Sansa **– I see you've already figured out my weakness

_I know all your weaknesses_... he thought, licking his lips. _Lemons and blood red roses and Dostoyevsky. Coffee with cream and sugar and almond croissants and lazy Sundays. Broken princes and dangerous games and anyone to replace your father._ That last thought made him pause for a minute, made him second guess himself before he could push those thoughts and dreams and memories back down.

**Jon** – 2pm? I'll pick you up at your place?

**Sansa** – Not the deathtrap again

_Yes, the deathtrap. I’d give anything to have you that close to me again, anything at all, Sansa Stark._

**Jon **– I think you like it. 2pm.

**Sansa** – I decline to comment.

**Sansa **– Saturday at 2pm. Anything special I should be wearing?

_Nothing at all._ Gods the thought of a naked Sansa Stark riding his bike flashed by his mind, unbidden. He stifled a groan, and resisted the urge to readjust his gym shorts in the middle of the street. Whatever he was, he hadn’t been reduced to that. At least, not yet.

**Jon** – Whatever you want is fine, but you will be riding the deathtrap.

**Sansa** – Jeans it is!

**Jon** – See you then, Stark

Jon couldn't hide the grin that spread across his face. He had meant to walk straight home after the gym, really, he had. Ghost surely wanted a walk, or some attention, and he’d have to be up early the next morning for work. Somehow though, his feet didn’t get the message his brain was sending, and he found himself on the sidewalk across from Sansa’s apartment, hoping to catch a flash of auburn hair through the cracks in her curtains.

* * *

**Sansa**

Was there a word for being happy and sad at the same time? Bittersweet? Conflicted? Or was it just confused?

It was like every nerve ending in her body was buzzing. Every time her phone dinged, her heart leapt into her chest, and she hoped each one was a message from Jon.

He had made her wait two days, two of the longest days of her life. The anticipation was so bad she almost broke down and texted him herself. But she couldn't do that, couldn't let him have that kind of control over her.

On Tuesday, her phone dinged that she had a new message while she was at work with Marg. She had been so excited to see what Jon had said that she almost bowled over Marg in her dash to get to her phone, tucked away under the counter. Marg had rolled her eyes and proceeded to make a customer's order. When Marg turned back, Sansa couldn't hide her disappointment that it was only Harry. 

**Harry** – Hey babe! Just wanted to let you know I'm going to be out of town this weekend for a football game.

**Sansa** – No worries, maybe we can see each other when you're back? :)

**Harry** – Definitely :)

**Harry **– Love ya!

Sansa had frowned at her phone screen. Had their conversations always been this dull, and she just never knew what chemistry was? Or was she sabotaging a perfectly good thing here with Harry?

Marg had just stood there, lips twisted in a macabre grin that screamed "_you need to stop this, one way or another."_

_I have been known to be somewhat of a master at self sabotage, _Sansa thought, burying her face in her pillow to scream.

Joffrey. Ramsay. Gods, what had happened with Professor Baelish, and she still hadn't told a soul. _Nope, nope, nope. Not thinking about that now. _

When she finally did get a message from Jon the next day, she felt almost euphoric, a rush of dopamine surging through her system.

_**Jon - **See you then, Stark_

_I want to see you sooner, I want you here tonight. I want you right now, s_he thought, falling backwards onto her couch holding her phone tight to her chest, a desperate part of her wishing he'd keep messaging her.

_It's like he knows just how to string me along, like he's playing with me..._

That thought gave her a chill down her back. Ramsay had liked to play with her too, and how had that turned out for her? But this thing with Jon, it felt more like a dance. _Still though, it doesn't hurt to be cautious_, Sansa thought.

_What do I really know about Jon Snow??_

_He saved my life, he rides a motorcycle, he works in construction._ She frowned, trying to dig into her memory of their dinner, blushing as she remembered the thrill that she'd had taking off her panties in the restaurant. She would never admit it, but sitting there in that chair with Jon's eyes piercing into her, and the rough jean material rubbing against, and between her bare folds had been the most turned on she had ever been in her life. She had almost had an orgasm just sitting there, wiggling in her seat, letting the seam of the jeans rub back and forth... _Focus! _

_He's lived in San Francisco all his life._ Or had he? He hadn't really been clear on that.

_He didn't go to university or college. _

_Anything else? Anything at all? _

How old is he? Where was he born? Did he have any siblings? She realized she had none of those answers and resolved to ask him all about himself on Saturday. After all, maybe it had been her fault and she'd talked too much at dinner.

Almost unconsciously, her fingers moved to Jon's name on her phone. She wouldn't let herself be disappointed by Harry anymore, it wasn't fair. She changed Jon's ringtone to a slightly more discreet ping.

It didn't occur to her to give Harry his own.

She settled in on the couch and started watching TV, periodically, but most definitely _not_ obsessively checking for any other messages from Jon.

Later that evening, her phone started ringing, and her mother's face showed up on the screen. Sansa let out a sigh of relief. She needed her mother right now, more than anything.

Catelyn Stark had shaped the way that Sansa saw the world and had helped pull her out of the darkness she had fallen into after her father passed away. She had been selfless and loving, even though she had just lost her husband and was now a single mother to three children.

Truth be told, Sansa could barely remember anything that happened the year after her father died, all she could remember was the night it happened. She knew she had been a mess after, and she knew that she had been going out drinking and partying. She knew she did some really, really stupid things, especially as a girl of only 14. Her mother had been there every night with a glass of water and a Tylenol though, and in time she moved on and came to her senses. 

Catelyn had never remarried in the years that followed, and instead focused herself on her work, on the children, and on advocacy for victims of gun violence. The work made her mother happy, gave her purpose, and a mission to set her mind to. Catelyn Stark was nothing if not persistent in her single-mindedness.

Sansa picked up her phone, and answered the call, turning the tv on mute.

"Hey mom!"

"Hey sweetie! Just wanted to check in and see how you were. I haven't heard from you in a couple weeks." She paused. "Everything okay?"

Sansa took a deep, measured breath. "Yeah. I just... I've been really busy with work and school." She heard her mother sigh on the end of the line. "And... I don't know. I think I might break up with Harry."

"Sansa. We've been over this." She heard the exasperation in her mother's voice. "I know he's not exciting, but some day you'll realize that you want someone kind and stable and loving. You do remember what happened with Ramsay, right?"

Sansa let her head crash against the couch arm, finding the dull crack of pain oddly centering. "I remember." _I remember more than I've ever told you,_ she thought, biting at her lip. 

"You don't want that again, do you?"

No, she didn't want Ramsay again. Ramsay Bolton had started off nice enough, but as the weeks went by, he became more and more controlling. At first, Sansa had liked it, had liked the plays for power, and had let him have it. The problem came when she tried to push back, tried to make it a game.

_Do you like to play games, Sansaaaa? _his voice echoed out in her mind like a serpent.

Sansa felt bile creeping up her throat and swallowed the urge to vomit.

"No, I don't want that again, mom." _Ever. Never Again._

"Harry is safe. He comes from a good family, and he treats you well." _Too well_, Sansa thought sardonically.

"I know he seems boring right now honey, but when you get a bit older, you'll grow into him."

_Like an old extra-large t-shirt,_ Sansa thought, stifling a laugh.

"You don't get it mom. Harry is like buttered toast! No, it's worse than that. Harry is plain noodles. Harry isn’t even vanilla ice cream, he's vanilla yogurt. Gods, mom, he's almond milk." _And Jon is devil's food cake and 30 year barrel-aged scotch, Jon is sneaking out after curfew, and smoking cigarettes behind the school. _She felt her toes curl up in her socks just thinking of him.

Sansa heard the sound of her mother laughing on the other end of the line.

"Maybe just stick with its not you, it's me honey."

They both laughed, and Sansa imagined herself, in another life, telling Harry what she had just told her mother. She wondered if that would be enough to finally make him react.

"Look, Sans, I support you in whatever you want to do. You know I love you, right?"

"I love you too, mom.”

* * *

It was 2:01pm and her phone gave off a delightful ping. He hadn’t messaged her since Wednesday, when she had changed his message alert sound. The new sound filled her with a giddy glee, making her heart beat faster in her chest. He always waited until he was technically late to show up, like it was a challenge.

**Jon** – Ready when you are, Stark

Sansa took a final minute to check herself in the mirror. She had opted to wind her long auburn hair into a low bun so the motorcycle helmet wouldn’t wreck it. It was a little cooler outside, so she stuck with her trusty dark jeans and a blouse. She smiled when she decided she’d wear her own leather jacket, hopeful he’d appreciate the gesture. Finally, she picked black leather knee high boots, trying desperately to justify them, that she’d be thankful for them if they got into an accident.

Unfortunately, her mind also kept reminding her that Marg had referred to these as fuck-me boots, and that held a certain appeal as well. Her mind drifted, unwarranted, to how it had felt to sit on the bike earlier that week, her arms wound around Jon’s hard chest.

Somehow, even though she’d only known him less than a week, she’d managed to touch more of him than she had of Harry in their first month of dating. _Harry never would have asked me to grab his phone from his back pocket, Harry would never ride a motorcycle, Harry couldn't make me wet just by staring at me._

_I need to stop comparing Harry to Jon, or Jon to Harry. Both. Ugh. _Sansa slammed her bathroom door shut with a little too much misplaced frustration.

She took one last look in the mirror, applying her favorite red lipstick and locked up her apartment. She bounced down the stairs, wondering what Jon was wearing, whether they’d match.

“Jesus Christ Stark.” She heard the sound of a sharp inhale of breath, and turned to see Jon leaning against his bike, arms crossed. It shone in the fall sunlight, all chrome and shiny black paint. He was looking appreciatively at her, like a starving wolf ready to devour her. _I guess he likes leather as much as I do._ She smiled, glad she had decided on the boots and jacket.

She walked up closer to him, noting he had swapped his dark jeans for light ones today, and a more casual tight black tee underneath. He was wearing heavy black work boots, and his jeans bunched up slightly around the high cut of them. He still wore the leather jacket though.

“I thought it might be nice for us to match,” she said coyly, smiling.

“You look… Christ…” Jon bit his lip. “You look like a goddamn sex kitten.”

Sansa felt her cheeks flush and averted her eyes. _Think of Harry, think of Harry, think of Harry. _She cleared her throat, and grabbed the spare helmet resting on the handlebars.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. That’s not a very _friendly _thing to say, is it Jon?”

Jon fought back a grin, and sat down on the bike, kicking up the stand.

“Friends let friends know when they look good. Get on the bike Stark, or I’m leaving without you.”

Sansa clipped her helmet into place and slid herself into the seat of the bike, letting her body meld against Jon’s back, _for safety_. She wrapped her arms around his chest, gripping tight, again, _for safety. _

“Where are we going?” She managed to breathe out, utterly entranced by the enjoyable rumble of the bike between her thighs, by the heat of Jon’s body, and the smell of his aftershave.

He revved the engine and took off down the steep streets, towards the bay. It was a cool fall day, but the wind was mild and the sky was clear. He took them through the tangle of streets down to Baker Beach. In the summertime, the beach was full of tourists eager to enjoy the sand and view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Now that it was fall though, the beach would be quieter. It was an oddly romantic location, and not where Sansa would have ever thought he’d be taking her. _It’s not a date, it’s not a date, it’s not a date. _

_So why does it feel like one?_

Jon pulled into the parking lot, and parked the bike. Sansa hopped off first, carefully taking the helmet off so as not to ruin her hair. Jon ripped his own helmet off without a care. He’d clearly been wearing the helmet for some time, as it had left his hair flat in some places, and wild with curls in others. Some strands stood up straight in the air, others hung against his forehead. Sansa couldn’t help herself from giggling at the sight. Jon frowned, narrowing his eyes.

“What’re you laughing at Stark?”

Sansa unconsciously reached out to his hair to straighten it, her hands almost making contact with it, before she caught herself. Her hand wavered inches from his hair, frozen, unsure. He looked her straight in the eyes, and she felt her breath catch. “Your hair… from your helmet…” She whispered, desperately choking the words out.

“You’re the one who has to look at it, not me.” He licked his lips, focused his eyes on her own. “Better fix it, yeah?”

Sansa tentatively closed the distance, letting her hands card through his hair. She could feel heat emanating from his body this close. His hair was softer than she could have ever imagined. Soft and thick and warm, and springy between her fingers. She let her fingers play and tangle in the dark brown curls as she teased his hair back into place, keenly aware of Jon’s heated stare. 

She wondered what it would be like to run her hands through his hair first thing in the morning, in bed, with him over her. Would he like it if she pulled his face towards her by his hair? Would he kiss her hard, or soft? What did his lips, his mouth taste like? Mint? Scotch? Dark chocolate? 

“Enjoying yourself?” He asked, eyebrow cocked. Sansa ripped her hands from his hair, embarrassed. Her hands accidentally brushed against his close-cropped beard as she pulled them away. It was darker, coarse and wiry against her fingertips, a delightful contrast to his soft hair.

She placed her hands into her jacket pockets, trying to ignore the way they buzzed from the contact with his hair. She wondered if they’d smell like pine too. “I was just doing you a public service, really. Can’t have you walking around looking like a muppet.”

He let out a snort, and walked to the back of the bike, unlocking the storage box. He opened it and pulled out a wicker basket and a woolen blanket. Sansa tried to stifle a giggle. Somehow, the idea of Jon Snow owning a wicker basket made her laugh.

“Are you laughing at me again, Stark?”

Sansa bit back her laughter. “It’s just, I never pictured you owning anything wicker, much less a picnic basket.”

Jon narrowed his eyes in defiance. “Well, truthfully, I borrowed it from my friend Sam’s girlfriend. But now, now I think I’m going to buy one of my own just to spite you.” He closed the storage box and started walking to the beach. Sansa followed close behind.

“Are we seriously having a picnic?”

Jon turned back to look at her, a look of mock hurt on his face. “What? Guys can’t make picnics?”

Sansa walked into the sand, feeling her boots sink slightly into the soft surface. “Yeah, just not guys like you.”

Jon stopped in his tracks and turned to look directly at her, those dark grey eyes piercing into her soul, holding her in place. Sansa felt her heart stop in her chest, as though she were prey caught in an open field.

His face was dark with an emotion she couldn't place, reverential and challenging in turn. His brows were slightly furrowed, his lips pursed ever so slightly, silently but obviously voicing his contempt for her judgement. His hair blew up around him slightly in the wind, a backdrop of dark surrounding his face. The Golden Gate bridge stood pristinely behind him, gleaming in the sunlight.

“You’d be surprised what guys like me do.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 🌶? 🔥? 💩? Let me know what you think!


	4. My, What Big Eyes You Have

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa have a picnic, Sansa relieves some _personal tension_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really smut, but graphic depiction of self pleasure ahead. Skip if you wish.

**Sansa**

They walked along the beach for several minutes, following the shoreline away from the bridge. Jon walked carefully but purposefully, holding the basket and blanket in hand. Sansa found herself walking half a step behind him the entire time, lost in thought.

He had only parroted back to her the words she herself had said at dinner the other night. Somehow though, it felt almost ominous when he uttered them. More like a promise, and less like a challenge. 

Sansa picked up her steps, and caught up with him.

“Where are we going?”

“I know a spot, best view of the bridge. Just gotta walk a bit,” he said, focusing on his steps and not her.

“How did you find it?” She was hoping to get some sort of tidbit of him, without sounding like she was prying.

“I didn’t find it actually. My dog, Ghost, he found it.” A smile passed by his face, breaking the tension. “I let him off leash here all the time, and he climbed up over this ridge here, past the beach into the bushes. Once you get past them there’s a clearing, or meadow, or whatever. It’s good to sit and think.”

_He has a dog. That’s something._ “What kind of dog is he?”

“White husky. Got him a few years back. Well, I guess he got me.” Jon's face pulled into a rueful expression. Sansa tilted her head in confusion. He laughed lightly. “Okay, so I was walking down a street at night, and I hear this pitiful whining sound. I go looking for where it’s coming from and find this little white puppy alone in an alley behind a dumpster. Whoever left him must have ditched him ‘cause he was a runt.”

“That’s terrible that anyone would do that to a little puppy." She reached out to touch his arm, then thought better of it and pulled back. "It was good of you to find him and take him in.” 

“Yeah, well, runts gotta stick together.”

Sansa looked at Jon quizzically. “You’re not a runt though.”

“I was when I was younger.” His voice had taken on a vaguely guarded tone, and his stride stiffened as though he were upset by the turn in conversation.

She sensed his discomfort and tried to deflect. “I guess we all were at some point.”

She heard a snort from in front of her. “Nah, I bet you were always the tallest kid in class, Stark. Anyone ever tell you you have legs for days?” He was smiling again, taunting her.

_I wonder if this is a defense mechanism? Why is he so afraid of the past?_

He pulled branches out of the way and gestured for Sansa to pass by. “Just past this ridge here.”

She walked past the held-back branches and found herself in a small outcropping of scrub brush and grass.

“Thought it might be nicer sitting here than on the beach. Nothing worse than sand in your food.”

She looked at the view before her, the Golden Gate bridge laid out behind them in its entirety. Above them was the golf course, and a trail that led around the coastline. But here, in this little pocket it was quiet, but for the wind and the ocean waves lapping up against the rocks below. “It’s beautiful, Jon.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

Jon took a minute to look at the view, and smiled, looking pleased with himself. “Glad you like it.”

He placed the blanket down on the grass and put the basket down decidedly. It seemed that everything he did was careful and deliberate. He sat down and opened it up. “Don’t expect anything crazy here, I’m not a cook or anything. It’s just some sandwiches and fruit and stuff.”

But even as he spoke and began to unpack the contents, Sansa could see a faint hint of pink in his cheeks, as though he were a little embarrassed, a little unsure. It was strangely appealing after all his bravado.

She sat down on the soft woolen blanket beside him, deciding to sit closer to the basket, and far from him. A blanket, a beautiful view, and relative seclusion were bad enough already. She didn’t want to add to it by sitting close to him, it would be too tempting, though for which of them she couldn't be sure.

“I knew meat was a safe option after you gorged yourself on steak the other night, on my dime I might add,” he said, teasing.

“That was your choice!”

“Let’s not quibble on the details.”

He tossed a sandwich her way from a tupperware container. “This one’s turkey, with brie and apple.” Sansa raised an eyebrow, Jon’s lip twitched. “Before you say a word, it was all Sam’s girlfriend, Gilly.”

Sansa bit back a giggle. It was nice to know that he had friends, and those that cared this much for him.

She started to dig into her surprisingly delicious sandwich and took in the view. _He has a rescue dog, Ghost. He has friends; Sam and Gilly, _she thought, allowing herself to relax. _But I need more._

“I just realized, I don’t even know how old you are, Jon.”

He turned his gaze from his sandwich to her, eyes twinkling with mirth, and she knew he could see right through her. “I’m 23, Sansa. Anything else you’d like to know?”

Sansa flushed and looked back down at her sandwich. “So you’re basically the same age as my brother Robb.”

Jon shrugged noncommittally, looking away from her. “That’s only what, like two years older than you?”

“Yeah, I guess... What are the odds that the guy who saves my life is so close to me in age…” Sansa trailed off, watching seagulls flying off in the distance.

She heard Jon take in a deep breath. “I’m just glad I was there. You know, in the right place, at the right time.”

Sansa looked at him, feeling his gaze on her. “Me too.” 

What would have happened if Jon hadn't been there? Would she be alive? Would she still be in the hospital? She twisted her face, dreading the thought. They both fell into silence, and she turned to look back at the birds, flying free above the world seemingly without a care. 

“So, why history? Planning to be unemployed for the rest of your life?”

Sansa rolled her eyes at Jon. “Listen, someday, when I’m finally a college professor at the age of 40, I’ll have you know I’ll be making a somewhat livable wage. Anyway, it wasn’t my original plan, but I guess plans change.”

Jon’s face darkened with concern. “What happened?”

Sansa took a deep, long breath. “I started in political science. I always wanted to work in policy or be a politician, or a lawyer, or something. Something where I had the power to change laws, or at least influence them. But I…” She let out a shaky sigh. It took everything she had to push the memory back, push it out. She shut her eyes tight, forcing the memory of her professor and his desperate, insistent kiss out of her head. _It wasn't your fault, you didn't ask for that. _

“Anyway, it was a stupid dream. History is better. In a way, everything that’s ever happened, all these big events always seem to repeat themselves. Maybe if we learn more, know more, maybe we could stop the wheel from turning. I don’t know. I guess this dream is just as stupid as my last one.”

Jon’s hand reached out to grasp hers. His hands were no longer in bandages, but she could feel now that the scabs were still on his palm, that it had not healed yet. Her heart panged at the idea that they would probably scar. But the roughness against the softness of her own skin was grounding, comforting, along with the heat of his body against her own. He leaned in slightly, his voice low and quiet. “No dream you have could ever be stupid.”

And the terrible truth that hit her suddenly with absolute clarity was that when she told Harry she switched her major, he hadn’t cared. He hadn't even asked her why. When she told him that she had decided not to dream, to try to be more realistic he had nodded approvingly. And maybe, just maybe, Harry had thought her dreams were stupid. She bit down the tears that threatened to well up and looked away from Jon.

“I could see you as a lawyer, you know. I bet you’d be a great prosecutor, taking down all the city’s bad guys.” His voice was still quiet, oddly soothing.

Sansa bit her lip, still looking away from him, she couldn’t let him see her like this, weak and vulnerable. 

“You’d never lose a case, and gods you’d look so hot in one of those tight business skirts.” Sansa stifled a giggle. “I bet you’d wear heels too, 4-inch at least. You’d tower over everyone in that courtroom. ADA Stark. You’d have them eating out of your hands.”

Sansa felt the shift in the air, felt his stare on her, but she still couldn’t look him in the eyes yet. This was easier than talking about the _real _stuff, the banter was better. At least for now. 

“Would I have you eating out of my hands?”

He squeezed her hand in his, rubbing his thumb in slow, lazy circles on the inside of her wrist. She closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling. “You already do, Sansa.”

Her breath hitched in her lungs and she felt light-headed.

He released her hand and coughed to clear his throat. The moment passed, and she released the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. She felt a cool shiver pass through her, the fall wind cutting through her leather jacket just a little bit.

“You getting cold?”

“Maybe a little.”

Jon shimmied closer to her until their shoes were practically touching. He was wearing his heavy, dark work boots again, and they tapped her leather boots just for a second before he readjusted. 

She blushed and felt her heart racing. He was so close, and so warm, and after what he had just said to her... _Is he going to kiss me?_ The thought was definitely enticing, and she began to picture it in her mind. Would he lean over further and pull her face to his? Would he push her to the ground and kiss her hard? She squeezed her legs together, feeling the anticipation growing.

He leaned over further towards her, almost over her now. _Oh gods, it’s going to happen. _

He turned his head to meet her eyes, a look of vague amusement and incredulity on his face. He leaned over further still, to reach into the basket and pluck something out.

“Relax Sansa, I’m not going to kiss you today.”

She felt her blush deepen, redness spreading down her neck with embarrassment. She gulped loudly, simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

He pulled out a flask and started to pull himself back from her. He paused halfway over her, his head only inches from hers. He turned so his lips were so close to her ear she could hear his even breathing. She wondered if he could hear her heart thundering. His breath was so hot against her neck she felt as though she were being branded.

“When I do kiss you Sansa, you’ll know it’s going to happen,” he paused, letting his breath tickle her ear, causing her to shiver, “and you’re going to love it.”

In a second, he pulled himself back to where he had been originally sitting. He unscrewed the flask and took a long swig. Sansa watched his throat muscles clench and unclench as he swallowed, unbearably warm and unable to move.

He looked at her and threw the flask. She barely caught it in time.

“This should help with the cold.”

_I’m not cold anymore, _she thought.

She took a sip from the flask. _Scotch, again. _It was good stuff, hot and peaty, and burned all the way down her throat.

“Oh, and check the basket. I got you a surprise.” He smiled wolfishly.

Sansa leaned over the basket and opened it. Part of her wondered why he hadn’t asked her to just grab the flask, wondering if it was all choreographed.

Her mind was quickly changed, as she saw the surprise hiding in the basket.

“Lemon meringue pie!”

* * *

That night, Sansa lay in her bed unable to sleep. Her skin was burning hot, her mind whirring.

_When I do kiss you Sansa…_

_When…_

It hadn’t been if, it was when. She smiled thinking of what it would be like to kiss him, how soft his lips would be. She was sure now when he kissed her, he would taste of scotch and the darkest, smoothest chocolate she'd ever tasted. Would it be soft and slow, or hard and fast? _Hard and fast,_ Sansa thought, turning over on her stomach so her face was in her pillow. Every part of her was aching for release.

Her hand began to drift down below the blankets, to the hem of her oversized t-shirt. She dipped it below her panties, past the small triangle of auburn curls to the folds of her cunt.

_When I do kiss you, you’ll know it’s going to happen, and you’re going to love it._

She dipped a finger inside herself, feeling her own wetness and heat.

_Jon, Jon, Jon._

She dipped a second finger in, enjoying the stretch and the relief it provided. But it was only momentary, soon she was aching worse than before. She curled her fingers upward to find that soft spot that made her see stars.

_His soft, brown hair tangled in my fingers. His dark grey eyes staring into me. His breath, hot and heavy against my neck. The way he whispers in my ear. His hand on my stomach, on my back. _

She couldn’t help but release a loud moan. She moved her fingers to her clit now, rubbing in fast furious circles.

She pictured him taking her hard from behind, his fingers digging into her hips. He’d be grabbing so hard that she’d have bruises for a week. _I’d be marked, I’d be his._

She stifled another moan and brought her other hand down to finger herself at the same time.

He’d call her a dirty girl, he’d spank her, tell her only dirty girls like getting fucked like this.

_and you’re going to love it…_ His voice called out in her head.

She could feel herself getting closer, like climbing a mountain, almost at the peak. Her chest was pounding, she felt as though she couldn’t breathe.

_The feel of his body against mine on his motorcycle, the way he stared at me when I came back with my panties in my purse. The way he leaned over me at the picnic, he could have taken me then. What would it feel like? Skin against skin, his body over mine, his hands holding mine down. Does he know I like that? Does he like it too? _

When she comes, she’s thinking of Jon standing in front of the bridge, looking handsome and dangerous, and almost feral.

She falls asleep instantly.

* * *

Sansa was in a hospital waiting room, standing there in her jeans and a t-shirt. She looked down and there was blood everywhere, on her jeans, her shirt, her hands. She looked up to see an older woman with dull eyes like mud. Her mouth was moving, but Sansa couldn’t hear a word.

Her arms were on Sansa’s shoulders, and then she pulled her in for a hug. When they broke apart, blood had transferred over to her scrubs. _It’s not your fault, it’s not your fault_ is all she was saying now, like a record on repeat. And all Sansa wanted to do is scream. She wanted to run outside and rip her clothes off, she wanted to yell at this woman, at everyone. _Then whose fault is it??_

Without knowing why, Sansa walked into the patient room. The curtain was drawn, and the lights were low. She knew when she opened it, she’d see her dead father’s body lying there. She’d see the bullet holes, but they’d have already wiped away all the blood, and he’d look peaceful and serene. She’s had this dream before.

But it was different this time. The lights were so dark she could barely see, and it was so cold she could see her breath in the air.

She opened the curtain, and found not her father, but herself lying there, calm and peaceful and white as the sheets around her. She leaned over slowly to look at herself. Her hair was slicked back and looked blood red, her skin like porcelain.

She reached her hand out tentatively. She only wanted to touch the skin, wondering if it is warm or cold, alive or dead.

The body’s eyes snapped open in an instant, and a cold, dead hand rushed to her own, gripping it tight, hurting her. It was like she is being drowned in pure ice, pulled in and entombed by it.

She couldn't breathe and it hurt so much she could feel tears welling in her eyes. She looked into her own body’s eyes, but instead of bright blue, they were dark grey and they were so familiar, and they were staring into her soul.

She couldn't help herself, she was entranced. She was playing a part, someone else’s role in a play. “My, what big eyes you have," she whispered, quiet as a mouse.

The dead mouth opened with a loud creak, and inside it was black as charcoal, an open chasm. The voice that came out was like the sound of cracking wood, like snapping twigs.

“The better to see you with.”

Sansa woke up screaming, her heart racing faster than it ever had in her life. Her skin was cold and clammy, and tears were streaming down her face.

* * *

\-------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have we earned !Dark Jon? !Possessive Jon? Was he too vulnerable here? Is it burning too slow? Burning just right? Figured it all out? 
> 
> Let me know what you think!
> 
> As always, comments inspire me to write faster ;)


	5. You're a Good Man, Jon Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has a revelation, Jon and Sansa take Ghost for a walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You don't even know how hard it was to wait two full days to post this

**Sansa**

Sansa sat in her _The Early Modern World_ class, desperately trying to pay attention and care about what the professor was saying. Wasn't it all just princes and kings, helpless maidens in flowing dresses, and knights with more brawn than brain?

Today, they were debating what the defining feature of the era was. A year ago, she would have been first to raise her hand, would have been eager to please, and eager for an A+. _A year ago, I wouldn't have been taking history courses at all_, Sansa thought ruefully. Nowadays, those things didn't seem to matter to her anymore. 

Whether it was globalization or sanitation or colonization, each answer felt the same, small and trivial in the grand scheme of things. What did grades and scores matter, when she'd never get to be what she wanted to be?

Jon's words echoed in her mind, despite her attempts at ignoring them. _Nothing you dream could ever be stupid._

Sansa looked down at her notebook. Where once she would have been dutifully taking notes, there was only a single question written on her page, in elegant cursive writing.

_Who is Jon Snow?_

Sansa couldn't help herself, Jon was constantly in her thoughts and her dreams. It was like he had gotten under her skin, permeated into her soul. When exactly that happened, she couldn't be sure. But she resolved that she wouldn't message him until she figured him out. Unfortunately, that was proving more difficult than she could have imagined. 

On Monday, she had tried to find more information on Jon through social media. She had combed through pages and pages, searching for connections and people in common trying to find his name, or at least his face. However, as far as she could tell he didn’t have Facebook or Instagram, and not even Tinder. Jon Snow was a digital ghost. Part of her thought it was refreshing to find a guy with no online presence, a guy who didn’t care about that kind of stuff. Another part of her screamed that it was a red flag. She wasn’t sure who to listen to.

On Tuesday, she had tried a different tactic, searching for some evidence of him anywhere on the internet. While there weren't a lot of Jon Snows in San Francisco, the few she found were not Jon. She had hit a dead end, and she didn't even know the name of the construction company he worked for.

_But he has friends. He has a dog. He's 23 years old, the same age as Robb. He works, somewhere, in construction._ _He saved my life. He risked his life for a stranger._

Sansa found herself wondering if Harry would save a stranger's life, risking his own. She didn't like the answer that sat at the back of her tongue.

And she'd seen glimpses of kindness in Jon the other day. It was enough to intrigue her, to sate that desperate voice in the back of her head, the one that told her to be careful.

No one other than her father had ever told her that her dreams weren't stupid. And how had Jon seemed to sense that she really dreamed of being a lawyer, just like her father? She was always sure to list it among other possibilities. She had been too scared to admit it had been her one single-minded goal. Uttering those words aloud would only make it hurt more when she failed, like she had.

On Wednesday, during lulls at the cafe she found herself stuck on his chat screen, wishing he would text her. Marg had been relatively kind about the whole thing, simply raising an eyebrow, and shaking her head. Even though she didn't say a word, all Sansa could hear was what Marg had said the week before. _Girl, you need to get your shit together._

* * *

He finally reached out on Thursday.

**Jon **\- I'll have you know I officially own a wicker basket.

**Jon** \- Proud to be here, subverting your expectations

**Sansa **\- Happy to be subverted :)

**Jon **\- How else can I subvert your expectations?

_By telling me who you really are, underneath it all. _

Sansa had toyed in her head with how to reply, but her own guilt got the better of her, and she never did. Instead, she spent her time catching up on schoolwork and agreed to have a dinner date with Harry. It had been over a week since the last time she saw him, and she was feeling _very _guilty. 

She stood in front of her mirror, staring at herself for a long time before she could leave the apartment to meet Harry. Standing there, she had been sent back to her childhood. Her father, Eddard Stark, had been a stern, but gentle man. 

But what Sansa remembered in that moment was one of her earliest memories, from when she was a little girl. She had spilled a glass of pomegranate juice on the plush white carpet in their living room, leaving an ugly purple-red stain that refused to come out.

She had lied to her father about who had dropped their juice on the carpet, and had blamed her sister Arya, knowing the _baby_ wouldn't _really_ be blamed. Somehow, he had known it was her anyway. Maybe because he was the district attorney, he had developed a sixth sense on who was lying, and who was telling the truth? 

Either way, her father stood her up in front of the massive, weirwood-framed, full length mirror in their foyer, and told her to stay there in front of it. He had placed his hand on her shoulder, just for a minute.

_"Sansa, I want you to look at yourself in this mirror. I want you to think about what you've done, and why. I want you to stay here until you can look yourself in the eye, and tell yourself why you lied."_ His voice was kind but severe. He removed his hand from her shoulder and stood back, so she was forced to face her own solitary reflection.

_"We can either choose to spend our lives lying to ourselves and others, or we can choose to look within and see the truth that is hiding there. Are you strong enough to see the truth?"_

Sansa had stared at herself in the mirror for an hour, counting every freckle on her face, every hair of her eyebrows. But inevitably, inexorably, her eyes had fixed upon themselves in the mirror. She stared at herself until she felt she was seeing through her own body, and into her soul. And then she realized she hadn't blamed Arya to escape the consequences, she had lied because she was jealous her baby sister was getting all the attention. 

She had run to tell her father the truth, and he had picked her up in his strong arms and held her tight to his body. He always smelt of winter, crisp and cool, and she had dug her face into his chest to breathe him in, letting her tears stain his checkered dress shirt. 

He had held her fast against him, with all the love in the world. _"Don't worry Sansa, I will always love you with all my heart." _

* * *

By the time she had been able to face herself head on in the mirror, she was half an hour late for dinner. Harry had been waiting outside the restaurant, looking angry and frustrated in turn. His normally cool and placid face was tight, and she could tell he was biting back scathing words. _I have scathing words for you too, Harry._

When they finally sat down to dinner, it was like they barely knew each other. All the comfortable ease that should accompany a long-term relationship was gone, and replaced with icy, clipped tones. 

Worse still, it had taken everything she had within herself not to nod off while he was talking about the football game the past weekend, or about his classes. She didn't miss that he didn't ask a single question about her own classes. Granted it was a toss up between _Intermediate Accounting_ and_ The Early Modern World as_ to which would win the award for most boring class ever, still though, at least she _pretended_ to care.

She tried to pass the time moving forkfuls of pasta from one side of her plate to the next. 

The truth that she hadn't been ready to face yet was that her and Harry had been done before Jon ever even fell into her life. It had taken an hour in front of the mirror to admit that. In her mind, Harry had represented a fresh, clean start. One free of drama and darkness. _A healthy relationship._ She was scared to admit to herself that what she had with Harry wasn't healthy either. She was terrified of the thought that she'd never have something _normal_, something _good._

And Jon...

Jon was something else. And until she figured out who he was, truly, she couldn’t let herself fall for him. That would be too dangerous.

She speared a cherry tomato that seemed to be staring up at her, taunting. _You already have._

“Sansa?”

She shook her head from her thoughts. “Hmmm?”

Harry looked at her with a hurt expression on his face, those blue eyes sad and baleful. “You don’t really care about how the game went, do you?

Sansa took a deep breath, trying to stifle a heavy sigh. “I do. I just… I’ve had a really long week. I’m sorry Harry. Did you score any touchdowns?”

He gave her a look of reproach. “If you’d been listening, you’d know I said I didn’t.”

She bit back a feeling of anger rising up inside her. _If you’d been paying attention, you’d know something was wrong. If you loved me, you would have cared. If you ever loved me, you’d have supported me, encouraged me. _

“I’m sorry, Harry. Did you guys at least win the game?”

Harry took a long pull from his mug of beer, looking at Sansa over the glass rim as he did. “We did. We all went out to celebrate after.” A queer, cheeky smile floated across his face for a second.

She chose to ignore it, it was too much work trying to care about anything he did anymore. She stabbed at another cherry tomato, pretending it was Harry fucking Hardyng, when her phone let off a cheerful ping.

**Jon **– Sick of me already, Stark?

Sansa couldn’t stop herself from smiling. She looked up to see Harry frowning.

“Who’s texting you?”

She swallowed hard. “Just Marg. She’s telling me about a guy she’s been seeing.” _It’s me who’s been seeing a guy and I’m lying to you and I’m a terrible person._

Harry cocked his head and looked at Sansa. “Tell her Hi from me.”

She looked down at her screen.

**Sansa** – Not yet :)

**Sansa** – Just been a busy week.

**Jon** – Make time for me this Saturday?

**Sansa** – Can’t. Having dinner with friends. Sunday afternoon?

**Jon** – Relegated to Sunday afternoons already? You wound me

**Sansa **– Take it or leave it, it’s all I’ve got

**Jon** – I guess I'll take what I can get..

**Jon **– Sunday afternoon at my place, I’ll text you the address

Sansa couldn’t help smiling with anticipation, feeling a tingle pass down from her back to that delightful place down low. She looked up to see Harry staring daggers at her. “Marg says Hi back.”

_You’re a terrible liar and a terrible person, Sansa Stark. _She winced, and put her phone back into her purse, wishing she were a better person, the kind of person who can look themselves in the mirror and be honest immediately.

* * *

**Jon**

Sansa had made him wait 8 days to spend time with her again. 8 very long days that had him vibrating out of his skin. He had gone years looking at her from afar, but now that he had touched her, smelt her, she was like a drug and he was in withdrawal.

When he woke up in the mornings to walk the dog and go to work, his first thoughts were of long auburn hair and bright blue eyes. He’d think of winding her hair in his hands and pulling her down to his cock. He’d think of those eyes staring up at him as she licked and sucked and worshipped him. Every goddamn morning he’d be harder than he’d ever been in his entire life.

The amount of time he was spending _taking care of his needs_ was cutting into walk time with Ghost. The dog knew it too. Those sad eyes stared at him in quiet defiance.

“Don’t worry Ghost, we’re gonna take you for a long walk today. You’ll get to meet my girl too.” Ghost let out a happy whine, burying his face in Jon’s leg.

Sansa had decided to play the doting girlfriend this week, spending time with Harry. He had known it was a terrible idea, a dangerous idea, but he had followed them to dinner. 

She had looked so bored and annoyed during the whole thing, that Jon was tempted. It was even more dangerous, almost certainly disrespectful to Harry, but he couldn't help but send her a message. 

Jon hadn't missed the smile that crossed Sansa's face when she saw his message, or the look of jealousy on Harry's face. _Definitely worth it._

“You better be on your best behaviour today.”

The dog looked up at him once more, with eyes that seemed to say _I’m always a good boy._

Jon sighed happily, scratching the fur on top of Ghost’s head, and gave him his morning kibble. He poured his coffee, and drank it at the kitchen counter while looking at his phone.

**Jon** – Northwest corner of Broadview and Battery, near Jackson square. I’ll meet you outside my place at 1pm

**Sansa** – Sounds good. That’s close enough to me I can walk!

_I know, that’s why I moved here._ Jon bit his lip and finished his coffee.

**Jon** – Wear comfortable shoes

**Jon** – Or don’t, and I’ll have to carry you

**Sansa** – Well that sounds kind of fun

Jon groaned, feeling his boxer briefs tighten. It would be another long, cold shower kind of day.

**Jon** – Fireman carry, I should add

**Sansa** – Not as fun. I’ll wear sneakers ;)

Jon’s fingers floated over the keys. Did he dare? Would it be too far?

**Jon** – That’s a good girl

_Too far, too far, too far. _

**Sansa **– You’d be surprised.

_Christ._

Jon ran his hands through his thick curls in exasperation and headed off for another shower. Ghost slumped down in his bed, reproachful and judging.

* * *

Jon peeked out the corners of his curtains at 12:50pm to see if Sansa was already there. She was. Sansa Stark was nothing if not punctual. 

She was standing there with a coffee in one hand, looking up and down the streets. She’d left her hair down today, and he wanted nothing more than to grab it in his hands and breathe in her smell. Lemons and roses, and something else, something sweet, something distinctly _Sansa._

It was October, but here she was in tights and a skirt. Those long legs were only covered by a thin bit of fabric, practically on display for him. She was wearing flats, but no sneakers in sight. That felt like a challenge.

And gods, she was wearing her damn leather jacket again. Jon licked his lips unconsciously. _Two can play this game._

He opted for his tightest pair of jeans, the ones his old girlfriend, Ygritte, had told him made him look like sex in jeans. Ghost jumped up on Jon’s bed, and crossed his paws expectantly.

“Soon, boy, soon. Just gotta make her wait a little bit longer.”

He tidied up the neckline of his beard with his razor, and rubbed in some aftershave on his neck. He checked his phone, 1:01pm. _Perfect._

He grabbed his jacket and Ghost’s leash and headed out the door, whistling for him to follow.

“Hey, Stark, I thought you were going to wear sneakers today," he called out, causing Sansa to whip around to the sound of his voice, startled.

“Jesus Christ Jon, don’t sneak up on me like that!” She quickly recovered though when she saw Ghost beside Jon, tail wagging happily. She leaned down to the dog, letting him sniff her hand. He whined appreciatively and licked her hand. She smiled, and began to scratch him behind the ears.

“Where’s my head scratches?” Jon said, smirking.

Sansa rolled her eyes, and continued to pet Ghost. Jon couldn’t help but feel jealous for his own dog. She looked up at him, blue eyes connecting with his dark grey.

“Only good boys get head scratches.”

_Fuck. Should’ve had another cold shower._ Jon felt warm all over, unable to respond, unable to come up with another retort. He settled for standing there, eyes slightly narrowed in amusement. She smiled back at him, a glimmer of _something_ in her eye.

The dog let out a grumble of agreement and leaned his head into Sansa’s thigh. “He’s really a beautiful dog, and so friendly.”

“He’s a glutton for attention, and you’re feeding his addiction. I thought since it’s Sunday and there’s nothing to do on Sundays anyway, we could just take him for a walk along the pier and in the park.”

“Sure! I could use the fresh air after this week.”

_You mean, after Harry. _

_Did he finally give you an orgasm the other night Sansa? I don’t think he did, but you do look rather relaxed._

The image of Sansa Stark lying in bed naked, masturbating passed by, unbidden. He wondered what she looked like when she came, what she thought about. He wondered if she cried out or screamed when she came. He wondered if he could make her back arch, her toes curl... He pushed down a shiver of anticipation, and the urge to push her in an alleyway then and there. _Not yet, not while she has a boyfriend._

They began to walk leisurely down to the waterfront, pausing to let Ghost enjoy the sights and smells.

“So I've told you all about my family. What about you, Jon? Are you an only child, or do you have siblings?”

“Yeah, I’m an only child. At least, as far as I know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jon sighed, and focused on Ghost, and not on Sansa’s inquiring eyes. “My dad left my mom right after I was born. He never even bothered marrying her when he knocked her up. Not that I can blame him really, my mom… She’s a piece of work.” His voice was full of scorn now. “Last I heard, he fucked off to Europe to start a new family. I heard a rumour he’s rich, not that my mom ever saw a penny of it.”

“I’m sorry Jon,” she whispered, letting her hand brush lightly against his own.

He tried to repress his anger, at himself for oversharing, at his family, at Sansa for feeling sorry for him. “Don’t be, it’s not like it’s your fault, is it?” He ground out.

She retracted her hand quickly, taken aback by his gruff tone. He instantly regretted his tone, and softened his voice. “Sorry, it’s just… Most people all my life have felt sorry for me. I can’t have you doing that too.” _Especially not you, not again. _

“I feel the same way when people tell me they’re sorry my father died. It’s like they’re obligated, like it’s automatic. There’s no care there at all, no empathy.” She paused, letting her hand brush his again. “That’s not how I meant it. I meant I understand how it feels to be angry at the world, to be dealt a shitty hand, and I’m just sad that you had to go through that. I’m sad that you were alone.”

“I’m sad you were alone too," he said quietly, letting his hand brush back against hers. _I’ll make sure you’re never alone again._

Jon’s mind floated back 7 years. The stories had passed through all the schools, and even the whole city, and within a week everyone had been gossiping. Jon winced as he remembered. It was a robbery gone wrong at a convenience store. Sansa’s father had tried to grab the gun, had tried to do what was right. The honourable DA Stark always had to do what was right, always had to catch the criminals. The paramedics had had to pull Sansa off him before they could get him in an ambulance.

They never caught the shooter.

Jon felt his mouth dry, and swallowed hard.

He'd make sure she'd never feel like that again.

They walked together in a comfortable silence, hands barely touching, until they reached the pier. It was a cloudy day, and the air hung thick with the promise of rain. When they got to the pier, it was so foggy Jon could barely see the boats moored off the docks.

“It’s like we’re in another world,” Sansa said breathlessly. “I can barely see you.”

Jon chuckled. “Saves you having to look at my face.”

“Yeah, cause it’s such a horrid looking face. Such a struggle to look at you,” she replied, teasing him.

“Yeah well, it isn’t exactly easy looking at you either, Stark.” _Not without wanting to push you up against that wall and have my way with you._

She put on a look of mock hurt. “Am I so hideous that’s it’s that bad?”

“Quite the opposite, actually.”

He let himself walk closer to her so he could lean down, only a couple inches from her ear. “I think you know the effect you have on me.” He heard her breathing deepen, saw her eyes darken when she turned to face him.

His face was so close to hers, he could kiss her now. He knew he could. From this close, he could see the remnants of freckles on her porcelain skin, something he’d never noticed before. Then again, he’d never been this close before. He saw a soft pink blush creeping up her neck, and longed to follow that trail with his tongue. _Soon._

She blushed even deeper, averting her eyes. She pulled herself from his orbit and started to walk away briskly. “Come on, there’s a café nearby that has amazing croissants, my treat.”

* * *

They spent the afternoon eating croissants and drinking far too much coffee. It was easy to talk to Sansa, she was easy to love. He found himself revealing more about himself than would be wise.

She was so kind and thoughtful, but had that edge to her, the one she kept hidden, and when it crept out...

Like when they’d stopped to play fetch in the park with Ghost. Each and every time, he would happily come back and deposit the stick at Jon’s feet, tail wagging a mile a minute. One time, she’d leaned down and grabbed the stick to throw instead. After she threw it, she’d looked him dead in the eye. _“Are you as well trained as him?”_

And the way she’d unconsciously licked her lips when he’d said no, that almost ruined him right there in the middle of the park.

They walked back to Jon’s apartment since it was almost dark, and Ghost needed his dinner. He felt her hand brush against his several times as they walked, and each time it sent a shiver through his body, as though she were electricity incarnate.

They stopped at the door of his apartment building, half in, half out. 

“You wanna come up and help me feed him? He seems to really like you, and that would definitely cement you in his good books.” _Smooth, Jon, smooth._ He kicked himself internally.

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.” She was biting her lip the way she always did when she was turned on, when she wanted to be bad.

“Why? I assure you, I won’t try anything, Stark.” He tilted his head down slightly to her, staring at her, staring at him. He let his voice lower to a barely perceptible growl. He lingered for a moment, relishing the heat between them. “Can you say the same?”

Her chest was heaving up and down faster now, and he wondered if her heart was beating as fast as his. He saw her eyes looking at him, wide and wanting. “I... I have to go.”

_What would you try, Sansa. Gods, what I’d give to find out._

She raised her hand to his cheek, just for a minute, letting it graze lightly along his beard. He leaned into it, closing his eyes.

“You’re a good man, Jon Snow,” she whispered quietly.

_If you knew what I think about, what I’ve seen, what I’ve done. If you knew what I did to Joffrey Baratheon, what I did to Ramsay Bolton… didn't you ever wonder why he never contacted you again? I made sure he'd **never** hurt you again._

_No, if you knew_ _who I really am, you wouldn’t think that._

“I’m really not.”

She smiled and bit her lip again. She leaned up and touched her nose to his gently. He felt a spark pass between them, static electricity, or something else. Her smell invaded his nostrils and he felt his arms move to her hips, letting them graze against the soft cotton of her skirt. It would be so easy, so good. All he had to do was give in to that feeling, that aching loneliness, and the promise of her taking it away. 

_I might have lied. If she came up, I’d definitely try something._

She pulled away slowly, her eyes wide and innocent and blue as the summer sky. “There’s something I need to do.”

With that, she ran away down the street.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's going to be even harder for me to wait to post the next chapter...
> 
> Please let me know what you thought!


	6. Back So Soon, Stark?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goodbye, Harry. Hello, Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I didn't rush the writing to get this out!
> 
> Warning for minor violence ahead, AKA Sansa being a bit of a BAMF. Not that I condone violence in the real world, but god damnit Harry is a dick in this, and Sansa is not a perfect person, and this is fiction.

* * *

**Sansa**

Sansa ran as fast as should could in her flats. _I should’ve worn sneakers like he said. _There were a lot of _should haves_ racing through her mind.

_I should’ve broken up with Harry a week ago, a month ago, ages ago. I should have been a better person, a stronger person. I should have never settled. _

_I never should have let so many men take advantage of me._

She fought back tears thinking back to all of her relationships, and all of the broken dynamics. All of the ways that she had allowed herself to be used because she thought that’s what love was, what she wanted, and what she needed.

She pictured herself in front of the old weirwood mirror, her own eyes staring back at her. 

_He's a good man, I know he is._

She thought of the feel of his cheek against the skin of her palm, how his beard had tickled the sensitive skin. He had looked so peaceful with his eyes closed, like a weight was lifted from his shoulders. In that moment he had looked innocent and vulnerable, in a way no other man had allowed himself to be with her.

She thought back to dinner with her friends the night before. How it had been a unanimous decision. _This has to end, one way or another._

She thought of how it had felt when his fingers touched her hips, so warm they almost seared her skin. She thought of how his voice had cracked with emotion when he talked of his family and his childhood, and how her heart had broken with his. She thought of how they had both spent so long feeling alone, how he shared her pain.

She saw something so familiar in him, a reflection of herself. 

Her heart was leaping out of her chest as her feet crashed against the pavement. Harry lived South of Market, because of course he did. Warehouses gutted to the studs and revamped as tech start-ups, swanky neon nightclubs with loud pulsing music, and loft condos that Sansa could never dream of affording. She could make it there before dark, if she kept up the pace. It was Sunday evening, so he’d hopefully be home.

She couldn’t, _wouldn’t, _wait another day.

**Sansa** – You home?

**Harry** – Yeah, why?

She bit back tears, she’d never been good with confrontation.

**Sansa** – I’ll be there in 30. We need to talk.

He never replied, but when she showed up at his loft he was standing outside, phone in hand. He stood there impeccably dressed in chinos and a light blue dress shirt, a direct contrast to Jon in every way.

He looked her up and down, and she felt embarrassment creeping up within her. She knew she was sweaty, and her hair must look wild and a mess after running that far. She knew her mascara would be smudged from the effort of it all, but it still hurt to have his judging eyes fixed so keenly upon her.

“You’re breaking up with me,” he said calmly, as though he were ordering coffee. His face was hard, eyes fixed and staring.

Sansa looked down at her feet, unable to meet his gaze. “Yes.”

“I knew it was only a matter of time, after dinner this week. Whatever this was, it hasn’t been working for awhile.”

She felt tears welling up in her eyes. _I’m breaking up with him, why does it feel like he’s breaking up with me?_ “No, it hasn’t,” she managed to choke out, her throat feeling as though it were in a vice grip. She tried to swallow down the tears.

He sighed, loudly. "I tried to be what you wanted me to be, Sansa. I tried to give you everything you wanted. You never gave me anything back.”

“I tried to, but…” _You aren’t what I wanted, what I need._ “I just don’t think we’re right for each other.”

Harry snorted loudly. “Who is right for you, Sansa? What do you need? What do you want?”

Sansa took a measured breath, trying to carefully choose her words.

"I want a man who is kind, but also strong. I want a man that is more than football and beer and old money. I want a man who protects me and understands me, implicitly."

She felt his stare fixed upon her, anger pouring forward. "What you want doesn't exist Sansa. You need to stop dreaming and be more realistic." 

_Nothing you dream could ever be stupid._

“For fuck's sake, then at least I need a guy who can make me come," she blurted out, immediately more embarrassed, cheeks flushed deep red and filled with regret.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Sansa?” He walked forward a step, and she stepped back in turn. His face was angry and mean now, full of spite. “It’s not my fault you’re fucked up.”

Sansa felt dread creeping up within her, its dark fingers twisting within her gut. His face curled up into a terrible smile, full of malice. “You know, when I fucked the head cheerleader, Wyla, this weekend, she came just fine.”

That terrible cheeky smile that had been plastered on his face during dinner the other night raged in her mind.

_I don't want to fucking think about Wyla, I don't want to think about you fucking her._ She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

He took another step forward, standing over her, covering her in his shadow. “It’s not me that’s the problem, it’s you.”

Sansa stood motionless, tears streaming down her face, hands pulled into tight fists. Part of her wanted to run away, to get away from him. But in that moment, Harry was Joffrey and Ramsay and Baelish, and every other man who'd ever taken anything from her without giving. He was the embodiment of all her compromises and insecurities and regrets.

She walked towards him slowly, purposefully, and punched him square in his handsome face. He crumpled, clutching his face in pain, blood dribbling from his nose.

“Goodbye, Harry.”

Sansa turned and walked to the street, hailing a cab.

“Corner of Broadview and Battery, please,” she said pleasantly. The cabbie nodded politely, and they drove off.

_I’m free, _she thought, reveling in the delightful sting in her right hand.

* * *

Sansa sat in the cab, her hand still buzzing from the impact of punching Harry Hardyng. She couldn't stop herself from grinning, letting her fingers drag through the blood on her hand. Was it blood from her own knuckles, or from Harry’s nose? It didn’t matter anymore.

The cab pulled up to the corner, and Sansa paid the driver. She stepped out into the cool night air, letting the wind tousle her long hair.

She looked to Jon's apartment building and was surprised to find him sitting on the steps, Ghost no longer in tow.

"Back so soon, Stark?" His voice was a thick, sweet rumble, sending a shiver down her back.

Sansa crossed the road, closing the distance between them.

"What are you doing out here?"

Jon cocked an eyebrow at her, as if to ask her the same question. His flask sat by his feet. "I'm not used to pretty girls running away from me. Needed to clear my head."

He stood and stalked towards her, dark curls framing his face. In the black of the night, he was as dark as a raven, save for his jeans. They were tight as sin, and she could see everything. He caught her staring decidedly downwards, and grinned that feral smile of his.

She felt her cheeks redden. 

"What happened to your hand, Stark?" He asked, gesturing to the bloody knuckles of her right hand.

"I broke up with Harry." Her voice was barely louder than a whisper, as though the breath had left her lungs.

His smile widened further. "Fucking finally."

In an instant he closed the distance between them, his hands reaching into her hair. He splayed his fingers through the strands and brought her lips up to his own.

The first kiss was soft and reverential, gentle and tentative. His lips barely grazed hers, but they were soft and full and tasted of scotch. Her nostrils were invaded by the smell of pine and that smell that was so uniquely him, like leather and salt. She felt dizzy, drunk on him.

Sansa's arms circled round his neck, pulling him closer. Jon groaned into her mouth and kissed her again. This time it was longer, harder. His mouth opened and his tongue began to dance along the crease of her own mouth, begging entry. She acquiesced and his tongue swept in, dancing with her own, possessing her completely.

His hands were everywhere, all at once. In her hair, stroking down her waist, to her hips, pulling her in. It was like he was drinking her in, worshiping her mouth and her body in turn. She felt herself falling into him, completely absorbed. 

He pulled away, giving her lower lip a small nip that made her knees buckle, and she let out an involuntary moan.

"I've been wanting to do that since the day I met you, Sansa Stark." His eyes were blacker than the night sky around them, his face pulled tight with arousal and anticipation, as though he were holding himself back. 

She stood there, arms entangled around his neck, finding it hard to breathe, hard to stay steady on her feet.

"Can I kiss you again?" His voice was deep and strained, thick with want.

All she could do was nod as his hands dropped to her waist, directing her off the sidewalk. He pushed her against the wall of the apartment building, giving her something to steady herself against. The brick was cool against her skin, a delightful contrast to the heat emanating from Jon.

_Will he fuck me, right here? Right now? _The thought entered her brain without reason and wouldn’t leave. The idea of it sent sparks down low, gathering like a hot molten ball desperate to break free.

His hands sat still on her waist, pulling it towards him, as he dipped his head down and captured her lips once more. This time, Sansa let her hands move to cup his face, then moved to his hair. She let her hands card through the soft curls while his mouth and hers continued their dance.

He broke off the kiss and tilted his head to her neck. His breath was hot and heavy against her skin, and she felt his lips graze her ear. For a second, he lingered there, his breath tickling her ear, making her writhe in pleasure.

"Did I keep my promise?" His voice was nothing more than a whisper, but it made her ears ring and her blood felt suddenly too warm for her own body.

"What promise?" 

"When I kissed you... did you love it?" She felt her legs weaken from the weight of his words. _Yes._

He began to leave small open-mouthed kisses along her neck, nipping and sucking the sensitive flesh with that perfect mouth of his. And when he bit down on her neck, she let out a shaky moan and pulled him tighter to her, gripping hard and tight on his hair. He groaned loudly into her ear, bucking against her, pushing her back into the cold, rough wall. _He likes having his hair pulled._ She smiled, biting her lip.

She found herself grinding back against his leg, desperately trying to get some friction, some relief. The small tingles of enjoyment were punctuated by frustration. She needed more, she needed _him_. She felt him grin against her neck, biting down harder and causing her to arch into him. One hand moved to the small of her back, while his leg pushed between her thighs.

"Tell me what you want, Sansa. Anything you want."

She mewled, rubbing herself against his thigh, taking the relief it gave. One hand reached back to her hips, helping to guide her movements, increasing the pressure. And it shouldn't have been nearly enough, it never had been before, but Sansa was already so close.

This was Jon. His lips on her, his strong, steady hands on her, his thigh between her legs, against the wall of his apartment building, where anyone could see.

She let out a louder moan now, causing Jon to stop kissing her and break away. His eyes stared into hers, wild and dark. 

His hands stilled, while Sansa ground harder against him, egging him on. He bit his lip with the effort of resisting her. "You have to tell me what you want Sansa," he ground out, his hands holding her hips so hard in place that she knew they would bruise. The thought made her whine loudly.

"I want to come," she whispered, almost embarrassed.

"Right here, right now?"

She looked down, but a hand rose to her chin and lifted it back up so their eyes met. "Don't be embarrassed. Just tell me what you want, sweet girl."

Sansa took all her fear and concern and guilt and everything else that had never served her well before and threw it all out. "Right here, right now"

Jon let out a deep groan that almost sounded like a growl, low and guttural. His lips went to her neck again, leaving dark red bruises that would be impossible to hide. "I knew you weren't a good girl Sansa Stark."

His hands dropped below her skirt, ripping open her tights. She brought his lips to hers again, kissing him as hard as he had kissed her. One hand steadied itself against her hip, while the other pushed her panties aside. The cold air was arresting, exciting against her bare cunt. She'd never felt anything like it before.

His rough fingers lightly stroked up and down her folds, gathering her wetness. She couldn’t help but shudder against him.

"Fuck Sansa, you're so god damn wet." He groaned into her neck, pushing against her for friction. "Will you let me help you come?"

Sansa nodded desperately, feeling warmer than she ever had in her life, as though Jon were fire and she were being consumed by him. He let one finger trace the circle of her pussy, dipping inside of her. She bucked forward onto it, willing him to thrust it back and forth. He obliged.

He added a second finger, letting the heel of his palm rest against her clit, giving constant, hard pressure. She began to writhe and moan without abandon, lost in the sensation of his hand and those fingers, pushing in and out.

"So wet and so tight. Is it for me Sansa?" he moaned out, his own body pushing against hers in rhythm with his hands.

"Mmmm.. yessss," she managed to moan out, before capturing his lips once more. She let his tongue dip into her mouth, letting him possess her completely, giving herself over to her own pleasure.

It was his fingers, curled in the perfect spot. His body pressed against hers, hard and lean with muscle. His eyes, black as charcoal now and staring into her soul. His lips, soft and swollen as her own. The cool night air, enticing and exalting. It was his tongue licking up and down the expanse of her neck. His teeth, biting her, _marking her. _And that hand, and the delightful constant pressure of it against her.

It began in her toes as a small tingle, and she curled them in anticipation. The tingle traveled up her entire body emanating out from inside of her, a firework of sparks. She came hard against his fingers, letting out a loud cry. His free hand slapped over her mouth in time to capture the sound. Her legs buckled beneath her. With one strong arm, he held her up against the wall, letting her relax into her own pleasure.

He looked her hard in the eyes, completely wild, hair disheveled and tangled from her own fingers. His lips were swollen from their fervent kissing, his mouth half open, panting. A little of the blood from her knuckles had smeared on his right cheek. In the dim streetlight, he looked almost dangerous. His face pulled into a dark grin. 

"You need to be quieter next time Sansa, or we're going to get caught."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orgasm count 2019:
> 
> Harry - 0  
Jon - 1 and counting
> 
> BTW I really vacillated on how to handle the breakup scene. I rewrote it several times, but Harry wouldn't stop being a dick. And the problem is, I can't handle the helpless maiden trope, and Sansa needed her breakthrough moment. If it was too much, let me know, and I'll rewrite it


	7. Sweeter Than Syrup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For there to be a summary, there has to be plot. There ain't no plot here, just fluff and smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought you might enjoy a brief reprieve before we get back to the mystery and intrigue ;)

**Jon**

_Sansa Stark is in my apartment. _

_Sansa Stark is sitting at my kitchen table._

_20 minutes ago, Sansa Stark came around my fingers._

Jon groaned, remembering the feeling of her body clenching around his fingers, how loud she had cried out for him, how hard he had been for her, how close he had been to his own peak just watching her, tasting her, feeling her. And best of all, the happy, uninhibited expression that had spread across her face as she found her pleasure.

Now, here she was sitting at his kitchen table, unrolling her ripped tights to reveal soft, pale skin. Ghost had curled up at her feet protectively, letting her run her hands through his soft fur, lazily wagging his tail. Her own hair was a wild tangle of auburn, her lips red and swollen. But she looked happy. Happier than he’d seen her in months. _Because of me._

Everything he had gone through, everything he had done, it was all worth it because it brought him here, to this moment. Sansa Stark was in his apartment, safe and happy.

He carded his hands through his own tangled mess of hair grinning like a fool, and walked to his small kitchen, pouring out a drink for each of them, watching the amber liquid pour into the glass tumblers.

“Here, you’re going to want this.” He thrust the tumbler into her left hand, eyeing her right.

“Why?” 

“It’s my turn to play doctor.” He nodded to her hand. “And I’m afraid I’m not nearly as good at it as you.”

Sansa looked first at her bruised and bloody knuckles, and then at him, fixing her stare on his eyes, her own squinting skeptically. “Do you even have first aid training Jon?”

He smirked, and walked back to the bathroom, praying he had gauze and antiseptic wipes. “I do not, but I think I’ll be able to manage under your tutelage Dr. Stark.” He heard the sweet sound of her laugh echoing from the kitchen.

He dug through the cupboards under the bathroom sink, trying to find first aid supplies. He’d meant to buy a kit, it would have been helpful for all the cuts and bruises he’d come home with after work, but he’d never gotten around to it. He’d never gotten around to a lot of things. He wondered if Sansa cared how sparsely appointed the apartment was, if she cared how small it was. Did she notice the absence of pictures on the wall? 

_Will I ever be enough for her? Could I be?_ He pushed down those unhelpful thoughts and focused on his task. _One step at a time._

He finally found gauze and antiseptic wipes in a small container pushed near the back of the cupboard.

Sansa was standing by the kitchen sink, washing her hand under the tap. She was turned away from him, and it took everything he had to stop himself from staring at the sight. Gorgeous auburn hair, legs for days, curves he desperately wished to trace, to memorize. _Why did she have to be so damn beautiful? _

He sauntered closer, hoping to sneak up on her, hoping to be able to lean in and smell her, just for a second. He leaned in, letting his voice drop to a low register. “I thought I told you I’d clean your hand up?” 

Sansa smiled and turned towards him, letting him box her in against the kitchen counter. He didn’t miss that flash of desire pass by her eyes. “I got sick of waiting for you.”

She was taunting him, he was sure. _We can play that game, if you want. _He bit his lip and let his body lean into hers. His extended his hands against the laminate countertop, trapping her against it, as he moved forward until their faces were only inches apart, his dark curls brushing against her forehead. “Anyone ever tell you patience is a virtue?”

She smiled in amusement, letting one hand extend to rest on his chest near his heart, fingers splayed out. _Can she feel my heart racing? Can she feel what she does to me?_

She leaned forward slightly, so her mouth was against his ear. “Patience is overrated.” Her voice was a whisper, low and sultry.

_Fuck_.

_Not yet, not yet, not yet. _

"You're a goddamn tease, Sansa." He let his head fall to her shoulder, resting in the crook of her neck. From this close he could see the marks he had left on her neck. That had been bad, he had gotten carried away. He turned his head and placed soft, soothing kisses over the marks, causing her to shiver against him.

He let his head rest there for a minute longer, breathing her in. Her hands moved to wrap around his chest, bringing him in closer. His chest was touching hers now, and he felt her breathing quicken, felt the heat between them.

“Thank you, for saving me.” Her voice was soft but steady, sweet and gentle, imbued with a weight that Jon could barely comprehend.

_I’d save you every day for the rest of my life, if it meant having you here in my arms. _

He placed a kiss to her temple and pulled away. “Now, can I fix you up?”

She nodded and they walked to the kitchen table. She sat back down in her chair, and Jon pulled his own close to her. She placed her hand on the table. It had begun to swell; ugly purple bruising mottled the skin around her knuckles. Jon shook his head and ripped open a wipe.

“This is going to hurt a bit.”

Sansa bit her lip and looked away. “Just get it over with.”

Jon wiped the open skin as quickly as he could. He saw when she cringed in pain and felt that pain deep within himself too, as though she were an extension of himself. Even wiping lightly across her hand was enough to make him wince in sympathy.

He quickly bandaged up her hand, securing the gauze in place. He leaned down and kissed her hand as gently as he could, then looked up to see her expression soft and dazed, eyes half closed with sleep.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I’ve just… It’s been a… well you know what kind of day it’s been.” She smiled at him, letting her fingers play with his own on the table.

“Yeah.” He licked his lips, remembering.

She returned his gaze, her own eyes filled with mischief. “I’ve never done anything like that before.”

"Which part? The punching, or the up against the wall part?" Jon chuckled, taking a heavy sip of his scotch.

Sansa blushed lightly, letting out a small giggle. "Both actually. But I meant the wall part." 

“That was a first for me too.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow in surprise.

“I don’t know who you think I am, Stark, but I’m not some kind of sexual deviant.” _Well I am, but only for you. “_I don’t go around doing _that _with every girl I meet.”

Sansa bit her lip, taking a sip from her own glass. “Good. I like that you only do this with me.”

He looked her in the eye, careful and calm. She was like a baby deer with these things, she had to be coaxed, carefully. “It’s all only with you, if you’ll have me.” _Please say the same, please say the same._

A twinkle passed by her eye. “Jon Snow, are you asking me if I’ll go steady with you?”

He felt a small blush creep up his cheeks. Why did she have to be so sweet, so kind, so cheeky? “Maybe. It depends.”

“On?”

He leaned in closer, focusing on her lips. “What your answer would be if I were.”

Her fingers intertwined with his, and she ducked her head down, suddenly shy. “My answer would be yes.”

“Then yeah, that’s what I’m asking.”

She grinned and leaned in to capture his lips, soft but insistent. He let his tongue sweep into her mouth, exploring and tasting her.

She let out a soft sigh of a moan and leaned further into him. He pulled her onto his lap, so she was straddling him, legs splayed on either side of him, skirt hiked up to show off those perfect, creamy thighs.

_There’s only a thin pair of panties and my jeans between me and her. _Jon tried to stop himself from getting hard, but this was Sansa, in his lap. _Gods, what does she taste like? What does it feel like to be inside her?_

_It’s too soon. It’s too soon. I won’t be her rebound, she’s not ready, even if she thinks she is._

He bit down on the soft flesh of her neck, trying to sate himself. It only served to make it worse when she let out the sweetest mewl of pleasure.

She languidly wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing kisses to his temple, his cheeks, his lips. He wound her legs around his waist, and stood up, letting his hands rest on the curve of her ass. He briefly wondered what it would be like to spank it, to watch that pale skin turn pink for him._ Don't think about that right now, Snow._

He felt his rapidly growing erection pushing against her body as he carried her to his bedroom. She smiled deviously at him, grinding lightly into it, causing him to groan.

“You gotta stop that, or you’re going to unman me, Sansa” he growled out, as he laid her down softly on the bed, placing chaste kisses on her forehead, her nose, her lips. She let her eyes flit closed for a second to enjoy the feeling and yawned softly.

Jon chuckled and walked to his closet. _De__finitely not tonight then._ He pulled out an old black t-shirt, the cotton softened from wear, and handed it to her. She looked quizzically at the shirt in her hand, and then back at him.

“What’s this?”

Jon grunted, pulling off his own black shirt. “It’s been a long day, Sansa. And I want to keep going, I really do.” He paused, looking down at the hem of her skirt, sitting haphazardly high on her thighs and unconsciously licked his lips.

“I really, _really_ do. But we have all the time in the world, and a lot has happened tonight.”

"Are you sure? We could... if you wanted?" She looked a little unsure, so Jon leaned down over her taking her lips with his own again.

“I want you to sleep here tonight, with me. And I do want you so bad, but we’re both going to wait on this until we're ready.” A small part of himself was screaming at him, cursing his own self-restraint.

Her hands moved to his chest, touching his bare skin for the first time. Her fingers were so gentle, so warm, that he nearly reconsidered his decision. She let them dance up and down the contours of him, making him shiver in anticipation. And when he caught her looking down at his stomach, at the tight cords of muscle, and that thin trail of hair leading down into his jeans, he could barely stand it. He said a silent prayer of thanks for all the long hours working and spent boxing, for giving him a physique that Sansa approved of, maybe even desired?

He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “I’ll go brush my teeth while you change.”

He walked back to the bedroom when he was finished, spare toothbrush in hand, and saw her lying there in his bed.

_Sansa Stark is in my bed, in my t-shirt. Those long legs on display, just the hint of her ass peeking out the bottom of them. Fuck. _

_You’ll be the death of me, and I’ll finally die happy. _

He passed her the toothbrush. “Here, this one can be yours.”

She smiled wryly, one eyebrow raised, looking at the toothbrush in her hand. “We’re kind of doing this all in the wrong order, aren’t we?”

Jon pulled her in close, relishing the feel of her warm skin against his. “Fuck the right order Sansa, we'll do what’s right for us.” She smiled and walked off to the bathroom, the hem of his shirt not even trying to hide the curve of her ass.

He pulled his jeans off and crawled into bed in his boxer briefs, pulling the covers up just a little. When she came back, she froze at the door, looking at him in the bed, almost as if he were on display. _Okay, so this may have been slightly intentional. _

She regained her composure quickly. _Bu__t_ _I saw__ you lick your lips, Sansa._

She laid down in bed next to him. Jon curled around her, pulling her back tight to his stomach protectively, breathing her scent in through her hair. _Lemons and roses and something so, so sweet._

She let out a quiet sigh, and relaxed into him. "Goodnight, Jon."

"Goodnight, love." He placed a kiss to her cheek, and held her close to him as he fell asleep.

* * *

Jon woke up slowly, letting himself lean into Sansa. Warm and soft, and so, so good. He'd dreamed of this moment for years, and never imagined it would ever actually happen.

_And... what's this?_

She was smiling and biting her lip, letting her ass grind against him. He groaned, still half asleep, letting his erection grind right back against her. She let out a quiet moan, increasing her speed against him.

His hands came to her hips, focusing her movements, feeling her breathing quicken. He could feel her wetness against his boxer briefs, having soaked through the cotton and lace of her panties.

"Jon, pleaseeee." Her voice was soft and pleading, and it would be so easy, so good.

Jon looked over at his alarm clock. 6.45am. _Shit._

"Sansa, I'm going to be late for work," he groaned as she increased her speed against him.

"Call in sick", she whined.

"Can't." She only ground harder though, insistent and mewling.

"Fuck, you're going to be the death of me."

He flipped her over on her back, and sat straddling her hips, hands resting on either side of her head. In that moment, he felt a heady kind of power, a hold over her, as though she were in his rapture. It felt perilous and addictive. But when she looked up at him with those beautiful blue eyes, he knew he'd give her anything she wanted, be anything she wanted him to be.

He smiled wickedly, and leaned over her, pinning down her hands and taking her lips with his own. "Hopefully my boss will forgive me," he ground out between kisses.

She laughed against his lips, trying halfheartedly to push against the restraint of his hands. Her eyes were dark and wild, matching his own, and she had begin to buck up for friction. It was almost more than he could stand.

"Sansa. Fuck.... Sansa.... Will you let me go down on you?"

He saw the grin creeping up on her face. "Please, gods yes, please."

Jon let out a quiet snort of amusement. Sansa pulled off her shirt, and he saw her. Finally, all of her for the first time. 

_Gods she's perfect. What did I do to deserve her? How could anyone have ever mistreated her?_

His hands reached out to cup her perfect, firm breasts. They fit in his hands like they'd been cast for him, carved from marble. The skin was soft and pale, a deep contrast to her pink nipples. 

He dipped his head down to take each nipple in his mouth in turn, sucking and licking, delighting in her cries of pleasure, and the way her legs had wound around his waist. He grinned and extricated himself from her hold.

He let himself slide down her body, hands trailing slowly down her firm breasts, down that flat stomach and those soft, wide hips to the top of her black panties.

When he looked up to her for permission, she nodded furiously, reaching down to take them off herself. He lightly swatted her hands away, teasingly.

"Patience, love, patience," he whispered, pulling them down slowly to reveal a neatly trimmed triangle of bright auburn curls.

For a second, Jon faltered, guilt rearing its head. _I shouldn't be doing this, not with everything I know, and everything she doesn't._

But then her hands began to card through his hair, lightly tugging and pulling, and he couldn't stop himself. He let his fingers roam up and down her folds, gathering the wetness of her arousal. He let one finger dip into her pussy, reveling in the heat and dampness of it. _She's so wet, so wet for me. _

She pushed her hands hard into his hair, pulling tight at his dark curls. He let out a reflexive growl, and she moaned in response.

Jon began to kiss and lightly lick at her clit, alternating between thick, long strokes and shorter, more insistent ones that made her squeal and buck her hips.

He fell into rhythm with his finger, adding another one and getting an appreciative moan. His other hand slid underneath her ass, holding her up, gripping hard enough to leave marks. She began to mewl and writhe in pleasure.

"Just tap on my shoulder if it's too hard, or if it hurts, and I'll stop."

Sansa smiled languorously at him. "Mmmm, don't stop."

He gripped harder on her ass, biting the insides of her thighs, sucking and leaving bruises. _Mine_, he thought as he pulled himself up to inspect the marks. He smiled, happy with his work, and dipped back down to her folds, licking up and down slowly. "Fuck, anyone ever tell you you're sweeter than syrup?"

"Jonnn, please," she moaned out, close to her peak.

"Please what?"

"I need to... I want to..."

He grinned widely. _I know what you want._

"You have to say it. Good girls ask for what they want."

She shuddered against him. "Please Jon, I'm so close."

He grinned, flashing his white teeth, lightly nipping at the insides of her thighs. "And I can keep you there for an hour if I want, if you're not good."

She cried out loudly in exasperation. “Please, Jon. Pleaseee.”

The sounds of her mewls and begging were more than he could stand. He felt himself begin to slowly grind his erection into the bed, desperate for relief. _I __can't keep up like this, not this morning._

"You're lucky I'm in a giving mood, I'm going to let you have this one."

He let his tongue move its way back to her clit and began slowly writing out his name letter by letter with his tongue, branding her.

He didn't spell out Jon Snow though, no. With her, he’d write out his real name, the one he had the first day he met her all those years ago.

He felt her beginning to tighten around his fingers, and she was squirming underneath his ministrations. She was so close.

"Come for me, Sansa." His voice was half growl, half groan. His fingers were thrusting inside her, fast and deep. 

It began with her cunt tightening around his fingers, her hands pulling tight on his hair. He continued to spell out his name with his tongue, giving even pressure on her clit, helping to bring her to her peak.

She came with a silent scream halfway through his last name. Jon smiled, and leaned up to kiss her, letting her taste herself.

“Was that too much?” His hand moved to lightly brush strands of hair from her face.

“It was barely enough,” she replied, with a devilish smile.

_I'm going to hell_. 

_Maybe she'll come with me?_

He readjusted his very tight boxer briefs, and began to stand up. He’d have to take care of that in the shower.

He glanced at the alarm clock, it's garish green letters mocking him. 7.15am.

_Fuck, Mance is gonna kill me._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your comments are my lifeblood. Its the only way I know if anyone is still reading!


	8. Blood Debt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa snoops around Jon's apartment, they have their first date, and Jon recalls an ugly memory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of violence/ptsd ahead.
> 
> This chapter is a beast compared to the others, it will be the longest of this story. There just wasn't any way to break it up and keep the same tone. 
> 
> From here on out I'll be updating more slowly. I swear my boss can see the dip in my work productivity! I'm aiming for weekly updates.

**Sansa**

That morning, Jon had been so late for work that he gave Sansa his key so she could take her time getting ready. She had also offered to walk Ghost for him, so he wouldn’t be even more late. Tit for tat and all that. She grinned thinking about exactly what had caused him to be so late for work. 

She didn’t need to be at the café until noon, so she lingered for awhile laying in his bed, breathing him in. It was a soft, king size bed, not entirely dissimilar to her own. _A man after my own heart, _Sansa thought, smiling. The linens were soft as well, almost silken in texture, better even than her own. She briefly wondered if all his sheets were like this, or just the ones on the bed right now.

Ghost let out an annoyed growl from the small living room, scratching at his food bowl insistently. Sansa sighed, stretching the sleep out of her muscles, and slipped from the bed still in Jon’s old shirt.

She padded across the floor to Ghost, giving him a good scratch behind the ear. He leaned in, pushing his weight against her leg. She filled his food and water bowls and went to the kitchen to make some coffee.

At first, she sat down at the kitchen table to drink her coffee, but she quickly grew bored. Her phone had died overnight and there was little else to do but stare at the empty walls. _He has no pictures, no paintings, no prints on the walls. _Sansa sucked her bottom lip into her mouth in contemplation.

She walked around the living room/dining room combination, trying to find some clues, some semblance of who Jon was. She paused at a full bookcase beside the TV. She let her fingers pass over the spines of the books; _Atlas Shrugged (no points there), A Tale of Two Cities (a couple points), Ulysses (a classic), The Great Gatsby (interesting…), a compendium of Shakespeare (book shelf filler? Or genuine interest?), Infinite Jest (very interesting…)_

For a man who claimed to not be smart, and who'd never gone to university, he had a pretty impressive book collection. 

Her fingers paused at the next spine in line, she’d recognize it anywhere. _Crime and Punishment. _

She trembled as she pulled it off the shelf. It was one of her favourites, and undoubtedly one of Dostoyevsky's best.

She opened it up and began to flip through the pages, finding rough scratches of writing in the margins, and that some passages had been highlighted. She paused at a page that had been well worn and dog-eared. On the page, one passage had been highlighted and circled.

_"We sometimes encounter people, even perfect strangers, who begin to interest us at first sight, somehow suddenly, all at once, before a word has been spoken."_

She felt a shiver fall down her spine as she read it, and instantly thought of Jon, and how they had met. How she had been so instantly attracted to him, how he seemed familiar to her, like they were two parts of the same soul.

_I think I'm falling in love with him._

She pushed down that thought for another day, and hurriedly put the book back into the shelf.

_It’s too soon, it’s too soon, it’s too soon._

“Come on Ghost, it’s time for your walk!” The dog perked up and began wagging his tail in earnest.

* * *

“So, you’re telling me you broke up with Harry, and got with Jon the same night?”

Marg’s tone was a little too haughty, considering all the things that Sansa knew she had done.

“I didn’t _get with_ him, we just… we did _some_ things.” Sansa grinned, restocking the milk and cream containers.

“I can tell. That turtleneck is a dead giveaway Sans, it’s only October.”

Sansa fought down the blush that threatened to take over her face and raised her eyebrow at Marg and her high and mighty tone. “Need I remind you about that business with the two Dornish men last year?”

Marg turned as red as a beet and began to furiously clean the counter. “Not at work Sansa,” she hissed in a low tone.

Sansa smiled knowingly and turned to look at her phone. Two messages, one from Jon and one from Robb. She checked Robb’s message first, family first after all.

**Robb** – Hey Sans, long time no talk! I’m gonna be in San Fran next weekend visiting Jeyne. Is it cool if I drop by?

**Sansa** – Of course! Would be great to see you!

**Robb **– Same. Mom misses you. She worries about you.

Sansa closed her eyes and lifted her fingers to pinch the bridge of her nose.

**Sansa** – She doesn’t need to worry.

**Sansa** – Oh, btw, I dropped the dead weight.

**Robb **– No more Harry?

**Sansa** – Nope.

**Robb** – Mom won’t be happy to hear that.

**Robb **– But I think you did the right thing.

**Sansa** – Me too. Text me when you’re on your way? I should be home all weekend working on essays.

**Robb **– Sounds good!

Of course her mother would disapprove. In her eyes, Harry had been stable, a sure thing. If she only knew who Harry really had been. Sansa rolled her eyes and decided to put off that conversation for another couple weeks.

Sansa flipped to Jon’s chat screen.

**Jon** – Did Ghost give you a hard time this morning?

**Sansa** – Of course not. He’s a good boy.

Did she dare?

**Sansa** – Unlike you.

**Jon **– Watch yourself Stark

**Jon **– I’m practically a powder keg over here.

**Sansa** – I did offer…

**Jon** – You’re a true romantic, you know that?

**Jon** – Let me take you out for dinner

**Sansa** – You’ve already taken me to dinner. You do remember how that ended right?

Sansa bit her lip, remembering the thrill of it, how it had felt to sit there in front of Jon with no panties, his eyes burning into her. _Did he already have me then? Or was it after? _It was hard to pinpoint exactly when Jon had gotten under her skin like this, or maybe it had been instantly? 

**Jon **– Well that could be fun to repeat…

**Jon **– What if I make you dinner? Well, I could try at least. Can even be at your place.

**Sansa** – Maybe…

**Jon** – Not every girl has a guy begging them to let them make them dinner, you know

**Sansa **– You did say you weren’t a good cook, remember?

**Jon** – I’m an excellent learner though. Maybe you can teach me, Dr. Stark?

Sansa’s heart flipped at the thought of what she could teach him, and he could teach her.

**Sansa** – Fine, but you’re doing the dishes too.

**Jon **– Deal. So when I can make you dinner?

_It can’t be too soon, I need to focus on school. Then I have a therapist appointment on Saturday, and I’m just not ready to deal with him and that on the same day…_

**Sansa** – Friday?

**Jon **– Perfect. I’ll be there at 6pm.

**Sansa** – Do you need directions or anything?

**Jon** – Nah, I have a good memory. See you then, love.

_See you then, love._

Sansa felt an entirely unfamiliar warmth spreading outwards from her heart to her body, like a shiver in reverse. Was she smiling like a fool? She looked over to see Marg shaking her very judgmental head. _Yes, yes I am._

* * *

Waiting until Friday to see Jon had been torture. She felt as though she were going through withdrawal from him. She couldn’t get the sight of him lying in bed, dark curls askew, lips soft and swollen from their kissing, hard chest on display out of her brain.

How could one man be so gentle and so brash in turn? There was almost a duality to him, as though he were two different people sometimes, or one person, torn by two separate motivating forces. And it shouldn’t have been, but trying to figure him out was like an addiction.

She found herself collecting tidbits of knowledge about him, collating them, and trying to piece together a portrait of Jon Snow.

_He has a motorcycle, he’s 23 years old, he lives in a one-bedroom apartment at Broadview and Battery, and he has pretty much the best dog ever. He works in construction. He was an only child and grew up with just his mother. He didn’t have a happy childhood, and that’s why he doesn’t talk about it, why there’s so few pictures of him anywhere. _

Sansa wrapped one of her favourite dresses around herself, tying the ribbon into a knot. It was a bright blue wraparound dress that cut off before the knee. Normally, she’d pair it with tights, but she wasn’t in a hurry to have another pair ripped. She smiled almost giddily as she looked in her bathroom mirror, opting to leave her hair down. 

As always, he arrived just late enough to annoy her, without actually being late. She heard the sound of his motorcycle pulling up in front of her place and glanced at her phone. 6.02pm. _Does he do this on purpose?_

She pulled open her curtain to see him sitting on his motorcycle, his thighs straddling the black metal, clad once more in jeans and his jacket. He pulled his phone out and started typing something.

Sansa’s phone pinged.

**Jon** – I know you’re staring at me

**Jon** – Got a thing for motorcycles, Stark?

Sansa felt herself blush, as he looked up from his phone and straight at her, dark grey eyes piercing into her. He grinned widely at her, and dismounted from his motorcycle, pulling off his helmet to reveal his wild mop of curls.

**Sansa** – Maybe…

His eyes were practically smoldering at her, a look of intense interest on his face.

**Jon** – Noted ;)

**Jon **– Now let me come in, or I’ll huff and I’ll puff…

Sansa giggled and walked down the stairs to unlock the front door of her walk-up for him. As soon as she got the door open, Jon pounced on her, pushing her against the wall of the narrow stairwell.

“Gods, I’ve missed you,” he groaned out, placing soft kisses on her cheeks and forehead and lips, his hands running up and down the soft material of her dress.

“I missed you too,” she replied softly, letting her own hands drift around his neck, and up into his hair, teasing out the wildness caused by his helmet.

He smiled and leaned his forehead against hers as she worked, his hands drifting to the knot of her dress, sitting at her waist.

“What would happen if this knot were to come undone?”

“I’d be left in a bit of a wardrobe malfunction.”

He lifted his head to look her straight in the eyes, eyes wide and dark with want, and mischievous in turn. “Interesting.” He licked his lips.

She swatted his hand away. “Not yet, I’m hungry.”

His eyes were smoldering again, his hands placed on either side of her head, and his body pressed her against the wall, hard and insistent against her. “Me too.”

She placed her hand softly on his chest, and leaned to his ear to whisper, “Down, boy.”

He let his head fall to the crook of her neck, his beard lightly scratching against the sensitive skin there. “Fuck, you have no idea what you do to me, Sansa.”

She glanced down at the obvious bulge in his jeans. “I think I have a clue.” _A very big clue._

“Now, did you get anything to make dinner, or are you going to be raiding my fridge?”

He grinned. “I’ll go get the stuff from the storage box.”

* * *

Why Jon had decided the perfect meal to make would be pasta carbonara, Sansa wasn’t sure. Perhaps he had been enticed by the sheer sparsity of requisite ingredients? Perhaps it was the allure of pancetta and egg? But either way, it became abundantly clear that it wouldn’t be Jon doing the cooking, but her.

He stood at her kitchen counter in a thin black pullover that clung to his biceps in just the _perfect_ way, trying _(and failing)_ to cut pancetta into even-sized pieces. Sansa sighed heavily and started to pull up her hair into a ponytail.

“I swear I can do this, Sansa,” he said, the tip of his tongue sticking out of his mouth in concentration, as he filled a pot _(too full)_ with water for the pasta.

“Let me at least help,” she offered, tying her hair back, and returning to the kitchen. _So you don’t burn down my kitchen._

He looked up from his work to appreciate her with her hair up. His eyes trailed to her neck and the faded marks that had almost all healed, and she felt the heat of his stare. Being near Jon was like standing uncomfortably close to a fire, like standing at the edge of a cliff. It made her heart pound with exhilaration, and as though her entire body was tingling and swooping and far too warm at the same time. _Will it always feel like this? Or does this feeling fade?_

Her longest relationship had been Harry, and that feeling had never even been there in the first place.

He reached out and let his hand stroke lightly against her neck. “I’m sorry I got carried away.”

She bit her lip, remembering how it had felt to give herself over completely, to feel how much he wanted her, how he had tickled and teased and nipped and sucked at her. “I think I liked it…”

He groaned and leaned into her, his hands teasing at the knot of her dress. “You are perfect, Sansa Stark.”

She averted her eyes and moved away from his touch. “I’m really not.” _Don’t put me on a pedestal like that, you will be disappointed._

She busied herself chopping shallots and shelling peas, and dropped the pasta into the water, while cooking the pancetta in a large frying pan. It crackled and sizzled as it rendered, releasing a smoky, salty scent into the kitchen. Jon uncorked a bottle of cabernet and poured them each a glass. He handed it to her, and she took it willingly, reveling in the rich flavour of it.

Jon seemed to have given up on the pretext of trying to cook and had opted to look around the apartment. Sansa found herself not minding at all, it was much more preferable than him burning the kitchen down. He wandered towards the living room, looking at the trail of photos on the wall, almost an exact opposite to his own apartment.

He paused at a big family photo she had put up, from when her father had been alive. He hesitated there for a minute, sadness flashing by his eyes. 

“It was from before… before he passed away,” she explained quietly.

Jon nodded carefully, looking at each person in the photo in turn. They had all been so happy that day, so innocent. Even Robb, who couldn’t have been more than 13 in that picture.

“It’s a good picture.” He raised his fingers to graze along the large wooden frame. “I’m glad you have these kinds of memories.” Somehow, that was the saddest thing he could have said, because Sansa then wondered if he never got that feeling at all, the feeling of unconditional love and support, the comradery and joy of brothers and sisters. And all she could picture was a family portrait of just him and his mother. She knew not to feel sorry for him, that they could have been happy anyway, but it pulled at her heart, twisting, gnawing at her until she felt hollow.

She turned away, and focused instead on the boiling pasta, trying to stifle the tears that threaten to well up in her eyes.

Eventually, he pulled himself away, and began to set the table for them, pulling out plates and cutlery from her cupboards. Sansa mixed the pasta into the pancetta and peas, letting the flavours meld for a minute. She directed Jon to separate the yolks from the whites of eggs, which he did mostly correctly, and then poured the yolks in to create the carbonara sauce. She doled out the portions onto the plates he provided and walked them over to the kitchen table.

As soon as they sat down, Jon started to dig into his food immediately, letting out a very appreciative moan. “Gods, Sansa, this is so fucking good.”

Sansa smiled and dipped her fork into her own plate. “I have to admit, I think I did a pretty good job.”

“I’d say.” He smiled wolfishly. “I’m keeping you around just to cook for me from now on.”

And for some reason, in that moment Sansa remembered her home economics teacher, Mrs. Mordane, extolling that the way to a man's heart was indeed through food, archaic as it sounded. 

“Is that the only reason?” She smirked.

“Yup, only for cooking, nothing else.”

She raised her eyebrow at him, taking a sip of her wine.

“Well… maybe a couple other things too.” His hand reached out to twine with hers. His hand lightly stroked over the scabs on her knuckles, and she felt the raised skin on his palm, where scars had begun to develop. She briefly wondered if it would always feel like this, when their fingers intertwined, if her heart would always skip a beat for him.

“So… did you end up being late for work?” _After you did that amazing thing to me with your tongue…_

“Yeah, but it was worth it.” He practically beamed at her. “Besides my supervisor, Tormund, he’s a good guy. He covered for me and my boss never found out.” Jon let out a rueful chuckle. “Tormund always understands when it comes to women.”

Sansa felt her ears redden at the thought of someone else knowing even a little bit about what they’d done. “Where is it that you even work? You never told me the name.”

He smirked at her over the rim of his wine glass, taking a languid sip. “Still digging up dirt on me, Stark?”

“Always.”

“Well we work wherever the site is. Right now, it’s a place in downtown Oakland. The company’s called Red Crow Construction. My boss, Mance Rayder started it about a decade ago.”

“How long have you been working there?”

“About two years, I guess.” He stood and began to gather up their plates and brought them into the kitchen.

He came back to the table a minute later with a plate of cupcakes in hand, looking equal parts bashful and immensely pleased with himself, and deposited the plate on the table in front of them. “So obviously I didn’t bake them, but they’re vanilla cupcakes with lemon curd filling.”

Sansa beamed and grabbed the one closest to her. She dipped her finger into the vanilla frosting and brought it to her mouth, licking the frosting off with her tongue. “Mmmmmmm,” she moaned out, “they’re delicious.”

She heard a groan from Jon and looked up to see him staring at her. His grey eyes were darker than charcoal, a peculiar combination of amusement and strained desire on his face. “Are you torturing me on purpose?”

She smiled and ran her finger through the frosting once more. “I wasn't, but now I am.” She brought her hand up to her mouth, but before she could open it to lick the frosting off, Jon’s hand snapped out and grabbed hers. He slowly brought it to his own mouth, his tongue flicked out to her finger, slowly winding and working its way around to capture every last bit of frosting.

She felt the air shift in the room, felt his heated gaze on her, his face pulled into a dark smirk, his hand still wrapped around her wrist, firm but gentle.

“Maybe I should torture you too?” His voice was low and rough.

She felt that increasingly familiar throbbing between her thighs, and squeezed them together, trying desperately to quell the heat that was rising within her own blood. He looked down at her thighs peeking out from the hem of her dress, and instantly she knew that he knew the effect he was having on her.

“What are you thinking about, Sansa?” He asked, eyes crinkled in amusement, that same smirk still on his face. 

_I'm thinking about what we did against the wall of your apartment building, I'm thinking about that beautiful, dangerous mouth of yours, and the things you can do with it, and I'm definitely **not** thinking about Dostoyevsky and fate and the possibility that soul mates might actually exist._

She squirmed in her seat, unable, or unwilling to utter the words out loud. Her face flushed in embarrassment.

“Good girls ask for what they want, or they get nothing at all.”

_If you knew what I think about, you’d stop calling me a good girl…_

His hand drifted from her wrist to her thigh, fingers tracing small circles with increasing radii, skimming against the hem of her dress. She felt so unbearably hot, as though she were about to combust.

“I want you,” she whispered.

He grinned widely, and in a single move, stood and lifted her by her hips to sit on the edge of the table. He positioned himself between her thighs, jeans flush with her bare legs, hands still on her hips. She reached up to cup his cheek, letting his beard scrape against her skin.

In an instant, his lips were against hers, kissing her with almost bruising strength. He tasted of wine and vanilla frosting, and all she wanted was more.

He pulled away panting, one hand moving to the knot of her dress, a devious smile on his face.

“You’re like a goddamned present, wrapped up in a bow for me.”

She laughed and placed her own hand over his. “Then unwrap me.”

His eyes widened with want and he bit his lip. “Where’s your bedroom?”

“Hallway, first door on the right.”

He picked her up in a fireman carry, causing her to laugh raucously, and brought her to the bedroom, pushing the door open with his foot. He gently placed her on the bed and turned on the bedside lamp.

He knelt down over her, hand resting tentatively at the knot of her dress. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” she whispered, tempering herself.

His hands deftly untied the knot, and her dress fell away to reveal matching black satin panties and bra. He bit his lip and stared down at her, as though he were ready to devour her.

“I noticed you liked black," she said, giggling.

“Very observant of you… So you dressed yourself just for me?” He grinned cheekily.

She blushed lightly. “Maybe… is that bad?”

“Gods no, it’s perfect.”

He dipped down over her, placing kisses to her stomach, her neck, her lips, his dark curls of hair tickling against her skin as he went.

She started pulling at the hem of his shirt, desperate for contact. “Off,” she whined, tugging the cotton upwards.

“As you wish.” He sat up, straddling her, and pulled his shirt off.

Her fingers ran across the smooth, hard expanse of his chest. He closed his eyes momentarily, lost in the feeling, while her hands dipped down slowly to his jeans, and she began undoing his belt.

"Sansa, you don’t have to…” He trailed off, as she began to undo the button of his jeans.

She could feel him hard beneath her fingers, straining to be released.

“I want to.”

He shuddered in anticipation against her, and he pushed her back down on the bed, leaving wet kisses along her neck, as her own hands tangled up in his hair.

His fingers deftly undid her bra, and he began to leave soft kisses on her breasts, causing her to whine and buck against him. He softly nipped and sucked at each nipple, increasing in pressure with each pass until she squealed lightly, a tingle of _something_ soaring up and down her body, to settle down low with a throbbing insistence.

He pulled back, looking her straight in the eyes. “Too hard?”

“No.” She grinned and reached out and grasped the bulge of his cock, straining desperately against the confines of his boxer briefs.

He groaned loudly, closing his eyes in pleasure. “We don’t have to, not yet,” he managed through almost gritted teeth.

“I thought you were a powder keg?”

He chuckled. “I am, but that’s not a good reason.”

“What if I want you, is that a good reason?”

“The best.” He dove back down to her lips, kissing her with renewed fervor.

She slowly dragged his boxer briefs off, while he did the same for her panties, until they were both naked before each other.

“Gods you’re beautiful,” he whispered.

“So are you.” She giggled.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You know, guys don’t really like being called beautiful, love. Handsome, sexy, hot, all good. Beautiful, not so much.”

And he was all three, easily one of the most handsome, sexy, hot men she’d ever seen. And it was a bit embarrassing how much she wanted him. But there wasn’t just the physical attraction, it was _him_, and his leather jacket, and his motorcycle, and his books, and Ghost, and that he saved her life, with no expectation or hesitation, and how do you even begin to repay someone for doing that?

He reached down to his jeans crumpled in a heap on the floor, and pulled a condom out, placing it on the bed. He looked at her sheepishly, while she suppressed a laugh. “Just wanted to be prepared, just in case,” he mumbled, the tips of his ears turning red.

One of her hands trailed down to his hard cock, and she grasped it, stroking the thick length gently. It was amazing how soft and silky the skin was, a sharp contrast to the hardness of the muscle underneath. She wondered how it would feel in her mouth, how he would taste.

His own hands moved to her pussy, one finger dipping into her, causing her to moan and buck into him. “Are you always going to be this wet for me, love?” he growled out, raising his fingers to his mouth to lick off her arousal.

She blushed, a little embarrassed by how wet he made her, how turned on she was.

“Don’t be embarrassed, you’re so goddamn beautiful like this.”

She began to stroke him harder, desperate to know what he felt like inside her. He bucked into her, grinding his cock against her wetness, causing her to moan again.

“Please,” she whined.

He grinned, and unwrapped the condom over his cock, and positioned himself at her entrance. Slowly, he began to push into her, inch by inch. It was bigger than she had expected, stretching her out, and filling her completely.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” He groaned out, already lost in his pleasure.

His cock filled her entirely to the hilt, making her cry out in pleasure, and just a little bit of pain. She wound her legs around his waist, desperate for the closeness, for skin to skin. He fell into rhythm, slow and steady, each thrust pushing against her clit, making her moan loudly. She began to feel the pressure within herself mounting, each thrust sending tingles of pleasure up and down her spine. 

His forearms fell to either side of her body, his face tucked in the crook of her neck, leaving gentle, reverent kisses on her neck. The softness of his lips, and the gentleness of his kisses were almost loving, something she’d never experienced before during sex. She felt her heart swelling with something she couldn’t _(wouldn’t)_ place. Her hand reached out to cup his cheek, and he let his forehead rest against hers, creating a closeness, a connection.

His thrusts began to pick up in speed, and she felt her toes begin to curl, felt herself so close to her peak.

"Jonnn, please I'm so close," she moaned out, fingers clutching so tightly against the muscles of his back that she was sure her nails were leaving marks.

“Are you going to come for me, love?” He whispered in her ear, his hot breath causing her to shiver, his tongue licking lines up and down her neck. One of his hands dropped down to her clit, giving fast circular strokes that made her see stars.

But it was only when he began to bite down and suck at her neck that she felt herself tip over the peak and come harder than she ever had in her life. He followed shortly after, spilling inside her with a loud groan of pleasure.

He threw out the condom, and came back to the bed, holding Sansa tight to himself, pressing a kiss to her forehead, their skin damp with their afterglow.

She felt herself sink into him, sated, and happy.

_But definitely not in love, not yet. _

She fell asleep quickly in his arms.

* * *

**Jon**

It was the sounds of bullets that jerked Jon from sleep. He was drenched in a cold sweat, shaking violently, and he was biting back tears.

_It was just a dream, just a dream._

Except it wasn't, it was a memory. An old one, one he'd hoped he'd never have again.

Jon sat up, trying to still the frantic pattering in his chest, trying to will the images out of his head. His head was pounding to that uncomfortable beat, that horrible memory. It was like a funeral march, leading him closer to something that he’d rather not face.

He had thought that protecting Sansa and keeping her safe would somehow stop the dreams. Instead, the closer he got, the worse they got. How much longer did he have before she figured it all out, and hated him for it all?

He turned to look at her, sound asleep with a small, subdued smile on her face, auburn hair strewn around her like a halo. She was the most beautiful girl he had even seen, and she had become the most beautiful woman. _So why is she here with me?_

She had been made to be protected, and he had vowed to do that 7 years ago. He hadn't meant to fall in love with her, that hadn't been the plan he’d made. But she was so easy to love, and now he was here, in her bed, like an idiot.

It was like he was a man stranded on an island, dying of thirst. When he’d seen Sansa for the first time _after that day_, she was fresh water, breathing life into him, taking away the pain that he felt, giving him purpose. Now though, each time he took a sip, all he could taste was brine, and it felt as though he were dying twice as fast.

How could he tell her the truth? Would she even believe him? Somehow, he suspected she wouldn't.

Which truth would he even tell first? There was so much he wasn't telling her. He had let this spiral out of control.

He had been so goddamn selfish and lecherous. He had known exactly how to play her into his hand, and he had taken advantage of that knowledge. Or did she just bring it out in him? He hadn't been himself in so long, he wasn't really sure anymore.

He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, hands clenched into tight fists.

Sansa stirred beside him, her hand moved to rest on his chest. He looked down at her small hand, peaceful and innocent, held fast against his heart.

_I love you. _

Would that be enough?

How would he even start?

_Hey Sansa, remember the worst day of your life? Well it was the worst day of mine as well..._

Jon felt the bile creeping up his throat, and his head began to spin. He slowly moved from the bed, trying not to disturb Sansa, and walked as quickly and as quietly as he could to her bathroom.

As soon as he closed the door, and before he could even turn the light on, he began to heave. He vomited in waves, on and off for 5 minutes, clutching the toilet with white knuckles. The wine from that night and all the food she had cooked came up faster than it had gone down.

He had only gone out to the convenience store to buy a bag of chips. It was so stupid, so god damn stupid.

But when he got to the door, he had heard yelling. He had paused, his hand on the handle, looking through the glass at the scene unfolding before him. It had been raining that night, and the glass of the door had fogged slightly from the humidity, casting a curious haze around the scene unfolding inside. 

A small man with greasy black hair was arguing with the clerk behind the counter, the clerk’s hands were raised in fear. Jon had frozen in place, his hand still on the door handle. 

The man behind him in line moved slowly forward, his arms up too. He was tall and carried himself with a kind of quiet strength. A girl stood behind him, frozen in fear.

And for some reason, all Jon could do was stare. He couldn’t get his phone from his pocket, he couldn’t run, he couldn’t yell or do anything. All he could do was look at the girl, and her bright auburn hair, a beacon that he fixated upon.

Voices became raised, and Jon could now hear the small man shouting.

The tall man pushed the girl behind the counter to safety and walked just one step towards the small man.

_“Let’s talk about this, you don’t need to do this.” _His voice had been calm, measured.

_“Don’t come any closer!”,_ the small man shrieked.

The tall man held his ground, a rock unmoving, unyielding, his voice loud and commanding. _“Listen, you can turn around right now, and you can go, and no one will press charges. No one will be able to.”_

The small man tilted his head slightly, looking at the tall man intently now, the clerk and the girl forgotten behind the counter. _“I know who you are, you’re the DA.”_

With his left hand, the small man reached down slowly, and lifted his shirt to reveal a gun poking out of the waistband. He grabbed it and pointed it directly at the tall man_. “I’m not going to jail.” _His voice was resolute but agitated.

The tall man raised his hands higher. He was talking quieter now, and Jon couldn’t hear, because the only thing filling his ears was the sound of the girl sobbing behind the counter.

The small man raised the gun level to the tall man’s chest.

_Why didn’t I run? Why didn’t I call 911? Why didn’t I move?_

In a second, the tall man grabbed for the gun, trying to shift the muzzle away to control the line of fire, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Jon could see the slide of the gun pulling back, he could see the flash out of the muzzle, brass flying out of the chamber and hitting the ground with a sharp metallic ring.

Then, only after, did he hear the gun shots, unbelievably loud, leaving him half-deaf and dazed.

_Bang. _

_Bang._

_Bang. _

_Bang. _

Simultaneously, the tall man’s body jerked back, chest concaved, head falling forward. His eyes were wide open, and he crumpled to the ground. And there was so much blood, too much blood.

There were four gun shots in total, no less and no more. Haphazardly fired, and irregular in frequency.

Yet, they haunted him all the same. He heard them in his sleep, on the trolley, walking down the streets, once when his motorcycle backfired.

But worse than the shots, was the sound of the girl’s scream, piercing through his soul. He could forget his name before he could forget that sound. He'd die hearing her screaming in the back of his mind, no matter how hard he tried to replace that memory.

And then, only then, he had run. Like a coward. He never told anybody what he had seen, not even his own mother. Instead, he had tried to forget what had happened, but he couldn't.

_You don’t forget the worst mistake you’ve ever made._

He heaved again, emptying the last of the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

It had only taken a couple days for the gossiping to start at school. Only a couple more for Jon to notice that his classmate Robb wasn't there anymore, and he wouldn't come back for the rest of the term.

Then, the first time he heard her name, he had been in the hallway eavesdropping on Robb's friend Theon talking to all their friends about it.

_"And the worst part of it is that his sister, Sansa, was there when it happened, she saw the whole thing."_

Sansa.

Sansa Stark.

A flash of auburn hair and eyes as blue as the sky.

_And I ran away._

_It's my fault, and I failed you, Sansa._

Jon felt himself retch again, his stomach flipping angrily. But it was no use, there was nothing left to come up. He laid down on the cold tile floor for relief.

_I should have left her alone. That was the plan. Leave her alone and keep her safe from afar. It was the least I owed her, it was the only thing that I ever did right. _

He curled up on the floor, grasping his legs to his chest, trying to will the images from his mind.

* * *

“Jon?”

He awoke to the quiet sound of Sansa’s voice, and the soft, gentle touch of her hand against his shoulder. His eyes blinked open and he realized he never made it back to bed.

He had been lying sprawled out on the bathroom floor, like a crazy person. _Think fast, think fast, think fast. _

Except his brain won't think at all, it's completely blank, and she is _definitely_ staring at him like he's a crazy person.

“Jon, why are you here on the floor?”

He felt his cheeks redden in embarrassment, and slowly picked himself up, his head pounding with that familiar beat.

“I must have the flu or something. I was sick all night.”

She looked unsure, placing her hand against his forehead. “You don’t feel like you have a fever… What’s wrong?”

Jon bit back the tears that were threatening to well up, pushed down that strained choking feeling in his throat. He couldn’t meet her gaze, it would be too hard.

_Please stop asking me questions I can’t answer._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo.... How do we feel about Jon now that we know why he's been trying to protect Sansa all these years? I'm really looking forward to reading everyone's reactions!


	9. How Very Freudian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa visits her therapist, and comes home to a surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick thank you to everyone who has dropped a comment or a kudo!! Your feedback and encouragement is everything to me!
> 
> So I know I said I'd slow down to weekly updates, but I've been having a crappy week at work, and this happened, so here we are.
> 
> Warning for smut ahead.

**Sansa**

“So, how have you been?”

Sansa sat on the faded brown leather couch in Dr. Luwin’s office. He presented himself as a kind and thoughtful man, as a man interested in her thoughts and feelings and her _moving forward._ But that was his job, so she wasn’t actually sure if that was truly who he was. 

She had been coming to see him once a month for two years, ever since she moved to San Francisco. He came highly recommended by her last therapist, and he really seemed to be helping her make steps forward.

He’d helped her recognize her pattern of picking men who were too overbearing and too violent. He’d helped her make sure she’d never date another Ramsay again. For that she was eternally thankful. Even though Ramsay had never tried to contact her after she left Sacramento, she sometimes still wondered if he would, someday, despite the restraining order. That thought brought a chill through her.

“I’ve been good.”

Dr. Luwin clicked his tongue and scratched something on his pad of paper. He liked to tell her that he was an old school therapist, and while usually she liked that she wasn’t being recorded, at moments like this it could be trying, when she knew he was writing something bad.

The truth was she never really knew where she stood with him, she never fully trusted him. And sometimes, every so often she felt like he was judging the choices that she had made, and that irked her. A lot.

Maybe it wasn’t judgement, maybe it was just disappointment? But that kind of made it worse. Either way, she had been dreading this appointment for a week, dreading to hear what he would say about Harry and Jon, and she knew he’d link it back to her father, like he always did. How very Freudian of him.

She pulled at a loose string hanging from the hem of her sweater. It held on insistently to its remaining stitches despite her efforts.

“I noticed you stopped filling out the online mental health assessments two weeks ago. You’ve been filling them out consistently until now for the past two years. Has something changed?”

_Everything has changed._

“No, I’ve just been really busy.”

Sansa chewed on the inside of her cheek nervously. The string had only loosened and gotten longer, and now hung from the hem in a ridiculous way. She tugged harder.

He uncrossed his legs carefully, readjusted his glasses, and sat forward ever so slightly. He was an older man, almost bald, yet insisted on maintaining the thin crown of grey hair upon his head. It made him look oddly regal, more than paternal, definitely patriarchal.

“Sansa, I get the feeling you’re not being honest with me, or yourself.”

She felt herself let out a heavy sigh, and instantly she knew he had noted it. He scratched something else on the pad of paper and she felt her eye twitch. He looked up, his pale grey eyes fixated on her.

_Here goes nothing._

“I broke up with Harry about a week ago.”

He only nodded, and placed the pad of paper on the table, clasping his hands in his lap. “Tell me about that.”

_Where do I start? Where do I end? What can I share without you writing on that damned pad of paper again?_

“He was cheating on me, so I ended it.”

He raised a single eyebrow, but otherwise kept his posture completely unchanged. “Does that relate at all to the scabs on your knuckles, Sansa?”

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the leather squeaked audibly. She pulled the sweater over her hands, covering her knuckles.

“I punched him.”

“That isn’t really like you, Sansa.”

“I didn’t mean to, I knew I shouldn’t. But as soon as he told me, I couldn’t stop myself. It was like… It was like he was Ramsay and Professor Baelish, all in one. He was taunting me.”

“And how did it feel to punch him?”

She heard his tone, his judgement, even though he pretended there wasn’t any.

She smiled, and ran her fingers along her knuckles, but instead of Harry and his stupid face, all she could think of was Jon. “It felt really good. Really, really good.”

He picked back up the pad of paper. “Why do you think it felt so good?”

“It felt like I finally had control. It felt like I was taking back something, something that was taken from me a long time ago.” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “It felt like I was free.”

She tugged harder at the string on her sweater, and it finally ripped from the hem with a loud snap. She looked up to see Dr. Luwin writing on his pad of paper once more.

_Shit._

He wrote for another minute, then looked over his notes carefully. “Sansa, when exactly did Harry tell you he was cheating on you?”

_Shit, Shit, Shit._

There was no more thread to tug at, so she tried to cross her hands carefully in her lap, tried to stop her own fidgeting. She’d been caught now in the lie, and there was no going back, only forward. “He told me when I was breaking up with him.”

“Earlier you said you broke up with him because he was cheating on you, but it sounds like that wasn’t really the reason, was it?”

There was a bird perched on the ledge of the window. Sansa decided fixating on that would be better than looking Dr. Luwin in the eyes.

“No. But… I don’t know. Maybe I knew on some other level that he was?”

More writing on the pad of paper.

She briefly wondered what it would be like to rip the pad from his hands and throw it out the window at the bird.

He looked up and caught her gaze. “Do you think that’s why you broke up with him?”

Sansa looked down at her hands, suddenly and irrevocably intrigued by her own cuticles, and _definitely not_ avoiding his gaze. “I don’t know.”

She could _feel_ him frowning at her. He always frowned when he knew she was lying.

“I broke up with him because he’s boring, and dull, and honestly didn’t treat me very well. I broke up with him because I didn’t love him and I don't think he loved me.”

Finally, blessedly, he looked pleased. “That sounds like you made a healthy choice, Sansa. I don’t condone what you did after - violence is never an acceptable solution - and we are going to circle back to that, but I’m proud of you for recognizing that you deserve love, and you deserve a stable, kind man that makes you feel safe.”

Sansa bit her lip, thinking of Jon. Was what they had love? Maybe. And he definitely made her feel safe. But stable? 

Her mind drifted to how she had found him that morning, lying naked on the floor, the smell of stale vomit hanging in the air. And the nagging feeling, that somehow, for some reason, maybe he was lying to her.

Dr. Luwin raised his eyebrow at her once more.

Sansa sighed.

_This is going to be a long appointment._

* * *

Sansa left her therapist feeling worse than she had when she came in. Evidently, punching an ex, even if he cheats on you is _regressive_, and apparently, she had simply _replaced_ Harry with Jon, and given in to her _tendency to resort to self-destructive behaviour through transference. _

His words grated against her as she walked home.

_“You’ve spent your life ignoring and running away from your problems, Sansa. You are running from one man to the next, looking for something you need to find inside yourself. It wasn’t your fault, what happened that day. Just because you asked your dad to stop at that convenience store, doesn’t mean what happened after was your fault. The blame lies on the shoulders of the man who shot your father, and no one else. You need to accept that, Sansa, or you’ll never move on.”_

_But how can I blame a faceless man, a man who was never caught. How can I move on when I don’t have any closure?_

Sansa stifled her tears as best she could, a nervous energy buzzing through her veins, as though she had drunken an entire pot of coffee. Part of her mind drifted back to that day, trying to remember, trying to picture the man who had shot her father, while the rest of her warred against it, trying desperately to push it back down.

She stuffed her hands into her jacket, and walked briskly up the steep hills, taking a very long route home and trying not to think about all the things she was supposed to think about.

When she got home, she was surprised to find a very bashful looking Jon sitting on her stoop, with two dozen winter roses sitting across his lap. His hair was wild and mussed up from his motorcycle helmet again, but somehow that just made him more handsome. He looked a little bedraggled, a little tired. But the dark circles under his eyes only served to increase the contrast to his dark grey eyes, and in that moment he’d never looked more vulnerable.

“I thought it would be romantic to surprise you with these, to you know, make up for being sick in your bathroom all night last night. I kind of forgot to come up with a plan for if you weren’t here.” His face twisted into a lopsided grin, and he rubbed the back of his head as he stood up and proffered the bouquet to her.

Before her mind could even process it, her body moved of its own accord towards him, and she jumped into him, spilling the roses to the ground. She wrapped her arms tightly around his neck, burying her face into the crook between his shoulder and head, and inhaled deeply. _Pine and leather and just a little bit of sweat. _These were good smells, comforting smells, bringing back recent memories that served to soothe her, a salve protecting her from her own thoughts.

“You have no idea how glad I am to see you right now.” She murmured in his ear, feeling his body responding and holding her tightly in turn.

One of his hands traced the curve of her cheek, thumb drawing an intimate trail of its own along her jawline, under her neck. “Bad day, love?”

_Now that is an understatement._

“I need to not think right now. Please, help me stop thinking.”

For a minute he hesitated, until she began to tug at his hair, placing kisses to his neck. She could feel his hands tightening around her, holding her tighter to him. She let him lead her against the building, cradling her ass with his hands, pushing her against the paneling of the two-story walk-up.

And it felt so good, to have his touch, his warmth, his hot breath against her ear. It felt so good that the more she fell into him, the less she could feel of her day.

“Upstairs, now,” she breathed.

His face turned up into a smirk. “I take it that means you forgive me?”

_Why is he still talking about this? Why is he still trying to get forgiveness?_ This, now, right here, was far more pressing.

She mumbled a yes while she fumbled in her back pocket for her key. She thrust it in his hand, delving back to those perfect, soft lips. It felt like maybe there was some existential truth to be had there, inside his mouth, and she was determined to find it or lose herself trying.

He unlocked the door, and walked them slowly up the stairs, pausing intermittently to push her against the wall, letting his weight box her in. It felt so good to have his body pressing against her, the pressure was comforting, sending her body buzzing pleasantly with arousal. 

It was when they’re at the top of the stairs that he paused, ready to unlock the door to her apartment. He bit his lip, and regarded her with intensity. “Is everything okay, Sansa?”

“It will be.”

She grabbed the key from his hand and thrust it into the lock, opening the door as quickly as she could. They barely got inside and got the door closed before Jon pushed her against the door, kissing her deep and long, his tongue melding with her own. He’d given up on any pretext as well now too, and she was secretly grateful for that. She didn’t need considerate Jon tonight, she needed that darker, more feral part of him.

He pushed her up against the wall, her legs spread wide and his thigh braced between them, but it wasn't not enough. They’re both wearing jeans and she could barely feel his heat. 

She shrugged her jacket off, and reached up to peel his off. She smiled, because as expected, below was another thin black pullover. The cotton was stretched tight over his broad chest, and his neck and collarbone were sticking out from the wide collar. She could see his muscles working to keep here there, pushed against the door. He was strong in a quiet, unsuspecting way, a way that made it all the more better when she caught these glimpses of him. 

She whined at the lack of friction, at her own desperation and need. Jon only narrowed his eyes in amusement, crinkles forming in the corner of his eyes.

“You have to tell me what you want, Sansa, remember?” His voice was rough, like he’s been swallowing sandpaper, and she wondered if this was the effect she has on him. That thought was thrilling.

“I want you, I want you to take me to bed, now.”

He grinned that knowing, cheeky grin of his, and pulled her by her arm to her bedroom.

“That’s not very romantic you know,” she countered, “What if I wanted to be carried there?”

He tilted his head just so to the side, eyes piercing into her soul, making her stomach flip and her fingertips itch. “You didn’t say you wanted romance. Is that what you want?”

She kicked her boots off and began to unbutton her jeans, shaking her head from side to side. “Not tonight. Tonight, I want to know what you want.”

He licked his lips, and pulled his shirt over his head, revealing his toned chest to her. He walked towards her, almost cat-like, like he’s stalking his prey, and pushed her to the bed, her jeans still hanging loosely around her hips. He pulled them off quicker than she could even register, and knelt down on the floor before her, his fingers tracing the hem of her bright blue panties.

“I like this colour on you, matches your eyes…” he said absently, letting his fingers begin to trace the outline of her folds through the already soaked cotton. Suddenly, he reached his other hand to the hem of her panties and ripped them apart, throwing the ruined cotton across the room. Sansa let out an audible gasp, and he let out a groan in reply.

“I’ll buy you a new pair”, he growled out, headed distinctly south.

His hands gripped her thighs so hard she wondered if they'll be bruised tomorrow. The idea of it made it even better, a physical memory that she could look at to center her, to calm that terrible voice of reason.

She pushed his head down, desperate for contact, desperate for release, and she could feel him grinning against her pussy. "Someone's bossy today. Good girls aren't bossy, Sansa."

But even as he said it, he began to lick up and down her folds, and she could feel her body shuddering with relief. She threaded her fingers into his hair. "I'm not good today."

He looked up, briefly, and his eyes were darker than night, and he had this look that a starving wolf must give a deer. "You sure?"

"Yes."

He lowered his head down and began to devour her, licking and sucking at her clit hard and fast. All Sansa could do was moan and squirm because it felt so good, but it was also so much, almost too much.

He thrust a finger into her, and the sensation she felt was more about relief than the pleasure it gave, more about taking away the aching and throbbing, than bringing her to her peak. She mewled against him desperately.

He groaned into her. "Gods, Sansa you're so sweet, so fucking sweet."

She could feel herself getting close, but it was not quite enough, she needed more. "I need-" she felt her cheeks redden, still not comfortable asking for what she needed.

"What do you need, love?" For a second, his grip on her thighs loosened. It felt like he was taking away something essential, like he was pulling oxygen from her lungs.

"I need you to fuck me," she whispered, pulling her shirt and bra off. Now she was naked in front of him, while he was still in his jeans, his lips slick with her wetness and looking at her with an intensity that made her burn.

Jon stood, pushing his dark curls of hair from his face, and began to unbuckle his belt. The belt dropped to the floor, followed shortly after by his jeans and boxer briefs, revealing his hard, thick erection, and she could see he needed her as much as she needed him.

She leaned over to her nightstand, and pulled out a condom, tossing it at him, causing his lips to twitch into a smile.

"Patience, Stark," he growled, leaning down over her. But that only made it worse, and she bucked up into him, delighting in the feeling of his cock grinding against her.

He leaned down, his breath tickling her ear. "How do you want it, love?"

"Hard," was all she could moan out before he unwrapped the condom over his cock, and thrust into her in a single movement, filling her to the hilt.

Jon covered her body with his own, possessing her entirely. His mouth was on her neck, sucking and licking and leaving little purple bruises, and the pace he set was punishing, hard and fast. She untwisted her hands from his curls and let them wander down his back, pulling him even tighter to her, letting her nails dig into his skin, and the hard muscle underneath. It's so good, and so different from anything she's ever experienced, that she could feel herself reaching her peak, could feel herself beginning to clench around his cock.

He lifted his head to look her in the eyes, his own blown wide and wild. "Are you gonna come for me, Sansa?"

She nodded desperately and curled her toes, wrapping her legs around his waist for traction. One of his hands trailed down to her clit and began to trace out something she couldn't comprehend, but it felt so good, and his mouth is moving up and down her neck nipping and sucking, and he's saying just the right things, and before she knows it she reaches her peak, crying out in ecstasy.

"Fuck, I can feel you coming around me, Sansa," he managed to grind out through gritted teeth.

And for a minute, she was sure that he was close to coming as well, except he slowed down and smiled down at her devilishly. "Can I fuck you from behind, Sansa? Will you let me do that?"

"Gods yes," she cried out, while his hands moved to her hips, twisting her around and pulling her up on her hands and knees. There was something about being exposed like this, her ass on display for him that excited her more than she could ever say.

He repositioned himself and thrust in hard with a groan of pleasure. His cock was filling her even more in this position. It was all encompassing, and finally she didn't have to think anymore, she could just _feel_ him.

He leaned over her back, tilting his head to her ear. "You're even wetter now than before. Do you like this? Do you like being taken from behind?"

She bit her lip and moaned loudly. She knew her cheeks must be bright red, and it was so hard to admit the truth that her mouth tried not to cooperate.

"Yes," she managed to breathe out, and she could feel his hands beginning to wander from her hips to her ass, softly stroking her skin, cupping her cheeks.

"You have such a nice ass, Sansa. It's like you work out every day, so round and perfect." She bucked against his touch, begging for more, wondering if he'd actually do it.

"Please," she begged, her own propriety taking over, leaving her unable to say the words out loud.

"Please what?" He asked, his hand pausing over one cheek, his cock still thrusting deeply within her.

She pushed her ass up into his hand, desperate for the contact. "Pleassseee".

"Do you want me to spank you, Sansa?" She could hear him smiling as he spoke. And it would be embarrassing, except he sounds hungry, enticed by the idea.

"Yes."

"Gods you're perfect... you have no idea how long I've wanted to do this." He leaned back up on his knees, one hand stroking her right ass cheek. And with that he slapped his hand across her ass cheek, causing her to cry out with pleasure and just a little bit of pain.

He paused to lightly rub the skin, and that felt almost as good, a sharp contrast to the tingling sting from before. And it was terrible to admit, but she wanted more, it felt too good to stop now, and she was so close again.

He lifted his hand once more, and it was almost the apprehension, the excitement of knowing it was coming that was better than the actual hand against her. Until she felt it contacting her skin, tingles and prickles bursting forth. She knew she was panting, and she knew she clenching hard around his cock, but she didn't care anymore, because when his hand connected once more with the skin of her ass, she could see stars.

"I'm going to come," she manages to cry out before she falls into her peak, collapsing off her hands and knees to the bed.

"Fuck. Me too, gods you feel so good." His voice was strained, his words barely coherent, and she feels him spill deep inside her, collapsing down beside her on her bed, holding her tight in his arms, pressing soft kisses to her neck and shoulders.

Her heartbeat slows, her brain becomes sluggish in her afterglow, and she can hear Jon's breath slowing as well. He turns her head forward to his and kisses her passionately, and she wonders if it'll always be this good.

It's only after, when he's pressing kisses to her neck, her breast, her navel, working downwards, that she remembers the winter roses, and that she must have forgotten them lying on the ground outside. 

* * *


	10. Close Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa have lunch, Robb comes to visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for taking so long to post this. I like to plan out the next few chapters in advance and hit a major road block. I want this to have a happy ending, and for that to happen, it's going to have to get dark and heavy first. I have adjusted the tags accordingly.
> 
> Special thank you to @chocolateghost for talking me down and pushing me to keep working on this, even when I was tempted to abandon it.

**Jon**

Jon had sat on Sansa’s porch waiting for her to come home from wherever she had been, expecting her to still be upset, scared, probably confused. How could he have let that happen? How could he have slipped, have fallen asleep like that in her bathroom, and how could it have happened right after they had sex for the first time?

He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t _because _they had sex, because that thought was more than he could bear. It was enough to make the bile begin to creep up his throat once more, make him think that what he was doing was wrong, that he had crossed some sort of line with her, and he couldn’t handle that thought right now.

It almost felt like all the control, all the discipline he had instilled in himself over the past few years, all the routine he had created to stabilize his life was unraveling. He wasn’t sure if Sansa was causing it all to fray apart around him, or if she were the only thing holding it all together.

He had sat there for two hours, two dozen winter roses in hand, completely vulnerable for her. The cold concrete of the porch left him chilled inside, froze him in place. After a certain point it became about his own pride that he wouldn’t text her, wouldn’t call her, and wouldn’t leave.

He had hung his head in defeat, waiting for Sansa until the sun hung low in the sky, and the air had become brisk with that distinct autumn smell of fallen leaves and overnight frost. At that point, with the gathering dark and advancing lateness, he had expected her to come home and just ask him to leave.

What he hadn’t expected was for her to jump into his arms like that, for her to need what she needed that night. He knew he should be concerned about the way that she had acted, wonder what had happened to her that day for her to act like she did, but most of him was just thankful for how easily it allowed him to scrape by without having to explain himself. He decided not to push that concern, and never asked where Sansa had been, or what had made her so upset.

There was a quiet voice in his head that told him what they were doing with each other, this way they were using each other, wasn’t healthy. He would silence that voice each day with another round of boxing at the gym, taking his frustration out on the heavy red bag that hung from the ceiling until every muscle of his body was aching, every tendon taut from exertion.

And after that night, they fell into a sort of comfortable rhythm. They messaged each other in the mornings and the evenings, and it was _almost_ domestic. After all this time they were really dating, and that thought made Jon happier than he could describe.

They would go about their work days, sending small messages and pictures of their days. In the evenings, one of them would inevitably call each other, and one time Sansa even fell asleep while on the phone with him. The sounds of her even, steady breathing had been so calming, Jon had laid down in bed with his phone on speaker, just listening to her breathing in, breathing out. She woke up half an hour later, sounding embarrassed but happy. It had taken so much to hold back on saying those words, on telling her he loved her. _It’s too soon._

Jon lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling of his old apartment, too sore to do anything else. His eyes followed the small cracks in the corners where the walls met the ceiling, watching them extend outwards like spiderwebs. Someday soon, he’d have to fill in the cracks and repaint over everything, but not tonight.

He picked up his phone, scrolling to her message screen. He looked at her last message to him.

**Sansa **– Miss you too…

**Sansa **– Gotta get to class now!

His fingers floated indecisively over the letters on the screen’s keyboard. He hated texting her first, hated the vulnerability that came with it, of putting yourself out there and fearing you won’t get a response. The fear of letting another person have the upper hand, of letting them have control.

But he also hated going without talking to Sansa even more, and he was at his breaking point. He took a deep breath, steeling himself.

**Jon **– Hey love, can I see you this weekend, or do you just wanna jump me in the streets again?

**Jon** – Cause either way I’m down for it

**Sansa** – I have to work on essays all weekend =(

**Jon **– Surely you must have to take a break at some point?

**Jon** – I could bring you lunch or dinner, help you unwind a bit ;)

**Sansa** – Tempting…

**Sansa** – Lunch on Saturday? I seriously only have an hour free though

**Jon** – I can make that work… if I have to

He grinned as he sent the last message, a plan formulating in his mind of how he pictured the day to go. His mind filled with visions of her auburn hair flowing over her pillow, the way her eyes closed and her mouth opened just slightly when she peaked, the sound of her moaning when he took her from behind, and the way she had ground back up against him as he had held her tight against him.

That night, it had felt like they were both falling, and they were the only things grounding each other. And even though he knew it was wrong, knew he was lying to her and she was keeping things from him too, he couldn’t stop himself. That feeling, that reassurance and safety he found in her was something he could not deny himself, no matter how hard he tried.

Jon threw his phone across the bed from himself, lying back against his pillow, closing his eyes tightly. He tried to think of Sansa, of her soft waves of hair and how they felt in his hands, of how she always smells of citrus and roses.

Instead, he fell asleep once more to the sound of her screaming.

* * *

Jon parked his motorcycle near Sansa’s apartment, kicking the stand in place. He had opted to wear his leather jacket and dark jeans for both warmth and practicality, and because he knew it drove Sansa crazy. Getting under her skin, watching her get flustered and her cheeks redden was one of his favourite things to do now that he knew he could.

He smiled widely as he pulled his helmet off and ran his hands through his hair, taming his unruly curls. Jon pulled the thai food that he knew was Sansa’s favourite from the bike’s storage box and headed up the concrete steps to her front door.

Sansa met him at the door, letting her arms snake around his neck as she kissed him at the threshold. She was wearing a soft knit dress in a dark blue material that only served to make her flowing hair more vibrant, bright as a flame in the black of night. He let his free hand trace around her hip pulling her in close, deepening the kiss, tasting the floral sweetness of bergamot orange on her tongue.

She pulled away after a few minutes, flushed and panting for air, her hand trailing down his neck to his chest, then to the hand that was holding the paper bag with the food in it. A coy smile played over her face before she grabbed the bag from his hands and began to run up the stairs, leaving him standing in the threshold, half-hard and without food.

He quickly composed himself and ran up after her, closing the distance. Before he could grab her though, she managed to make it past the door at the top of the stairs and tried to close it on him. He let out a growl and began to push through while she laughed breathily, trying desperately to hold the door closed.

“Is that the way you greet the guy who brings you food, Stark? Kiss and run?”

She only giggled and tried to brace her body against the door harder. Jon narrowed his eyes in concentration, accepting the challenge. He pushed his entire body weight against the door just as Sansa relented and began to open it. He had been expecting the hard surface of the door, but instead there was only air in his way, and he found himself falling into her entryway, hands hitting the wood floorboards. He looked up in mild consternation to find a red-cheeked and laughing Sansa, still panting and breathing heavy from the exertion, and he was struck by the thought that she had never looked more beautiful than she did now, happy and free.

“Sorry,” she whispered, reaching her hand out to help him up. He grabbed her hand, and instead pulled her down on top of him, letting her straddle him on the entryway floor, the door still ajar, the food forgotten on the floor.

His hands snaked up her curves to rest in her soft, long waves of hair, letting his fingers weave in and out of them. He could still feel her heart beating fast, her heavy breathing causing her chest to move up and down fast. She leaned down to kiss him, and he let his tongue meld with her own, possessing her completely. “I thought you only had time to eat?” he whispered against her lips, pulling away for a minute.

She broke away from the kiss slowly, looking from him to her laptop which sat on the kitchen table, a cursor blinking on a word document, and a cup of half-drunken tea beside it. “This is my reward for work well done,” she said teasingly, diving back in for another kiss.

Jon pulled himself up to a sitting position, Sansa still straddling his lap. She was pressing soft kisses to the crook of his neck, and he was feeling himself stiffen again. He let his own head fall to the crook of her neck, breathing in the fresh scent of her shampoo.

But that nagging voice kept going in the back of his head. The one that said they were using each other, that this was only about sex for her, and nothing more. He let out a heavy sigh, and started to stand himself up, pushing her off him lightly. “Come on, let’s eat before the food gets cold.”

Sansa smiled and rose to her feet, grabbing the paper bag and walking to the kitchen table.

They were digging into the food when Sansa’s phone let off a ding. She picked it up and frowned at the screen, putting down her fork and biting at her lip, while glancing quickly up at him. He didn’t like that look at all. It was a look of guilt and discomfort, and instantly he felt his stomach begin to twist with doubt.

“What’s wrong, love?”

She let out a heavy sigh and unlocked her screen, typing something out quickly and relocking it, looking back up at him. “I forgot my brother Robb is coming by soon. He’s in town visiting his girlfriend, and I haven’t had a chance to see him a lot recently. I hope it’s okay that he drops by?”

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck._

Jon grit his teeth, and tried to make a smile, acutely aware that it was more of a grimace. He saw Sansa’s face fall as she looked at him and tried even harder to make his face look more genuine, wondering if he was just making it worse.

_Fuck, not now, not yet, this can't be happening._

He had left their highschool just as Sansa had started, opting to get his GED instead, but he had still attended two years of school with Robb as a classmate. They weren’t really friends, but Robb knew him and would recognize Jon, even after all these years. When Robb saw him here with Sansa, and recognized him, it would all fall apart. And he was so close, so close to this all working, he couldn’t let that happen. Just a little bit longer, and she would trust him, and then he could begin to start telling her the truth.

Jon could tell he had been silent for far too long, could tell Sansa was staring at him, her eyes slightly squinted in concentration, still worrying at her lip.

“It’s too soon, isn’t it? I’m sorry Jon. I can just tell him to not come by.”

Jon shook his head vehemently. “No. No, family is important. It’s just- I should go. I really should. You said you had work to do anyway, and I’m taking up your time.” He winced at his own words, he could tell she didn’t believe him.

“Are you sure Jon? Robb said he’d be glad to meet you.”

He looked around wildly at her apartment, and for some reason his eyes fixated on that damn family portrait, and Ned Stark’s eyes seemed to be boring into him.

In the next moment he was 15 years old again, standing outside a convenience store in the rain, watching blood puddle onto scuffed linoleum tile. In another moment he was 20 years old, and his muscles were aching, and his lip was burst open, and everything tasted of blood – of copper pennies – and then he was a toddler again making a wish and throwing pennies into a fountain at the mall with his mother, wishing for his own father to come home.

He was struck by the sudden, penetrating thought that perhaps no one ever really moves on, that maybe each and every person is trapped in a world of their own experiences, destined to relive those moments over and over again, and that maybe he’d never be free of this, of everything he had done.

He could feel his throat choking up, could feel his heart beginning to race. The walls of the apartment felt as though they were closing in on him, and those god damn eyes just kept staring at him, through him, until they were all he could see. 

_Not here, not now, please gods, not again._

He stood up, trying to stop his head from reeling, trying to slow his own heart beat.

“Jon, are you okay?” Sansa’s voice was wavering, unsure. She placed her cool hand on his forearm, and it seemed to freeze him. He looked down at it with incredulity, at how small and dainty it looked there, skin pale as porcelain.

_What have I done? What am I doing here?_

“I need to go.”

Jon grabbed his coat and helmet, not even bothering to put them on. He looked at Sansa, who had a shell-shocked expression on her face, still sitting there, her hand floating in the air where his forearm had just been.

Jon ran down the stairs, throwing his jacket and helmet on, not even bothering to buckle it up, before starting his bike up and throttling it down the street.

* * *

**Sansa**

Sansa sat in her chair at her kitchen table, staring at her front door where Jon had just raced from. The look of fear on Jon’s face had been disconcerting, had made her insides twist up. She had never seen him look like that before. Up until now, he had always been cool and collected, almost mysterious, with only small glimpses of his vulnerability. In that moment though he had let the entire façade fall and she had seen overwhelming fear in his eyes, his nostrils flaring, his mouth hung open just slightly.

Why the idea of meeting her brother had caused him to falter so much, she couldn’t be sure. Her first thought was that maybe he was just afraid of what her brother would do to the guy who has been defiling her. She grinned at that thought, remembering what Robb had done to Joffrey one night when he had gotten too handsy at a party. Robb and a couple friends had put the fear of god in him, and Joffrey had never bothered her again. But this seemed like more than that.

Sansa sat at the table, her legs tucked up under her chin, picking at the remnants of her pad thai, waiting for Robb to come. Her mind kept going back to that morning when she had found Jon lying on the floor in her bathroom, and the nagging suspicion that he was lying to her then, and that he was lying to her now.

She pushed the bowl of pad thai away from her, no longer hungry, and stared at the wall in front of her lost in thought.

She was torn from her contemplation by the sound of her doorbell. A part of her hoped that it would be Jon, that he was back and would explain everything to her. Unfortunately, it was just Robb. She couldn’t hide the disappointment in her face when she opened the door to find him on the other side, smiling widely.

“Good to see you too, Sans”, he said, pulling her into a big hug. His own auburn hair tended more to curls than her own waves, and the tight ringlets tickled at her face as he hugged her. She laughed and pulled away from him.

“It’s really good to see you Robb, I swear.”

“Try smiling next time, and I might believe you.” He flashed his trademark grin, his bright blue eyes twinkling with mischief as he walked through the threshold into her apartment. He gestured at the two bowls of food left on the table. “I take it the new guy didn’t want to stay and meet the big brother?”

She bit her lip and let her head dip down so she wouldn’t have to meet his gaze. After 21 years, he was too good at reading everything on her face before she could even say it, before she could temper it down and make it manageable, more palatable. “He said he had to go.”

Robb moved to the kitchen, grabbing a bowl, and helping himself to some leftover red curry. “It’s a bad sign that he ran like that, you know that right Sans?” He dipped his spoon into the bowl and brought it to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “He picked a good thai place though, so at least there’s that.”

He pulled out her chair, and one for himself, and gestured for her to sit beside him. She sat down slowly, pulling her legs up tight to her chin once more. The position was calming, protective, it was one she found herself in more often than not.

“Sansa, how much do you really know about this guy?”

She closed her eyes, reciting the list she had created in her mind. _Jon Snow is good, he is kind, and he is nothing like Ramsay._

“His name is Jon, and he works at a construction company called Red Crow Construction. He is 23 years old, like you. He has a rescue dog, and he has a good heart. Trust me Robb, he’s a good man.”

Robb’s face screwed up in concentration, his eyebrows furrowed upwards in concentration and empathy. “Sans, you have to be more careful than this. I know we’re all not that far away but… we worry about you.”

She felt her face fall at his words. After everything that had happened, after how hard she had worked to put the past behind her and move on, her family still saw her as broken, as needing their help and protection.

They both picked at the now cold food on the table for a minute, Sansa trying desperately to come up with some tidbit about Jon that would make Robb leave him alone. _He brought me winter roses, and I never even had to tell him they were my favourite, he just knew._ _He always just _knows_._

But none of these things would be enough, because it was clear now that Robb was here on orders from their mother. Robb smiled thinly at her across the table, and she knew instantly he was about to lay down whatever plan their mother had devised.

“I have an idea. Why don’t you have him come meet the family? Arya and I are excellent judges of character.”

Sansa sighed, rolling her eyes. “It’s too soon, Robb. Think about how long you waited before you brought Jeyne home to the family.”

Robb nodded slowly, his face still furrowed with concentration. He looked around her apartment, then at her, and instantly she felt like she was on display, like all her faults were laid bare and immediately obvious. And they probably were to him. She hadn’t been sleeping well since her appointment with Dr. Luwin, and though she had tried to cover the bags under her eyes with cover-up, she knew it was still obvious.

_The blame lies on the shoulders of the man who shot your father, and no one else. You need to accept that, Sansa, or you’ll never move on. _His words rung in her mind as she felt Robb’s gaze staring into her soul.

“Sansa…”

But he didn’t need to say any more than that. She felt tears welling up in her eyes, felt his hand reaching over for hers.

“Okay,” she managed to croak out, her throat knotted up with the effort of holding in her tears. “Okay, I’ll come home and visit, and I’ll ask Jon if he’ll come.”

Robb smiled and squeezed her hand. “I really hope he comes.”

_Me too_, Sansa thought, chewing at the inside of her cheek.

* * *


	11. Whatever Makes You Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has a heart to heart with her sister, later she has a realization about Jon.

Sansa

** Sansa ** – Hey, are you free right now?

** Sansa ** – I could use someone to talk to…

** Arya ** – I take it Robb talked to you

** Arya ** – For the record, I think it’s a terrible idea

** Arya ** – Gendry still hasn’t met the family, and we’ve been dating for a year

Sansa read her little sister’s messages and smiled as her phone began to ring. Having a sister like Arya was like having a best friend that is always in your corner, always on your side, but also simultaneously your harshest critic. She never held back and always said what was on her mind, which of course explained how she was the only girl in their school to ever be suspended for fighting in the schoolyard.

“You know how mom is. She can come on a little strong.” Arya’s voice echoed through on the phone, not even bothering with hellos.

_ Understatement of the year… _“Yeah, I guess.”

“And you know Robb and Jeyne Westerling had been together forever before he finally took her home to meet mom.”

“Yeah, but Robb never…”

_ Robb never dated a guy who was abusive and had to get a restraining order. Robb never dated someone who was cheating on them, or maybe he did and didn’t know it? Now that’s a terrible thought. _ Sansa bit at the inside of her cheek.

“Hey, remember that time that Robb and Theon got so drunk at the homecoming dance mom had to come escort them home? What about when he skipped so many classes, he almost had to repeat 11th grade? Robb isn’t some moral paragon here Sans, and even if he were, it’s still your life.”

_ Is it though? _ Sansa had spent so much of her later teens helping their mother raise Bran and Rickon, had spent so much time dedicated to getting perfect grades, and doing all the right extracurriculars, and even now in university, she had relented and switched her degree. If this were her life, it didn’t really feel like it.

“I guess I’ve just always felt like after what happened… I just feel like I owe it to everyone. Like I need to make them happy, make them proud of me.”

Arya sighed loudly into the speaker, probably, definitely, on purpose. “What about you Sans? When do you get to be happy? When do you get to do what you want to do?”

_ What do I even want to do? _

_ What do any of us want to do, when we strip away other’s expectations of ourselves? Does anyone actually ever get to do want they want in life, or do they just do what they have to, to get by? _

But Arya wouldn’t understand that. She left home as soon as she finished highschool last year and moved in with her boyfriend Gendry. He started a mechanic apprenticeship, and she went to college to become a paramedic. There were no questions, no cautions, and no caveats to her actions. And maybe it was better that way, to do what you needed to be happy, to thrive; but maybe that was also selfish too?

All Sansa could think of was how their mother never chose the life that she was thrust in, never chose to be a single mother raising 5 children, but how she had done it with grace and poise, and how her entire life that had been the ideal Sansa had been trying to live up to. She had spent her life trying to make other people happy, and gritting her teeth and bearing through everything else, only ever hoping to just _survive._

“Okay, well when did you know you wanted to be a paramedic? How does that make you happy?”

“Well first, I’m not a paramedic yet, I still have 6 more months of training to go. Second, I guess I always knew after dad died that I needed a job where I was in control, where I could help, where I wasn’t just sitting in the corner watching everything fall apart. And yeah, it makes me happy to feel like I’m out there making a difference.”

Sansa thought back to how she felt so much of the time, as though she were the bird on Dr. Luwin’s windowsill, except trapped on the other side of the glass in nondescript rooms, each one a mirror of the last, differing only in the painting prints on the wall; a never ending rotation of Monet and Manet and Renoirs, each printed on increasingly cheap poster paper.

She swallowed hard to push those feelings back down. “I feel like that too a lot of the time.”

She heard Arya’s tone change, become softer – a rarity for her. “Whatever happened to becoming a lawyer like dad? Wasn’t that what you always wanted?”

Sansa felt the thick lump in her throat creeping back up, threatening to choke her up, threatening to betray her steady voice that she had worked so hard to craft. “I think I ran away from that too.”

“Maybe it’s time to stop running, Sans. Maybe it’s time to stand your ground and do what you want to do.”

“But that’s the problem Arya, how do I know what I want to do? How do I know that what I’m doing, I’m doing for me, and not for mom, or for Robb, or for the memory of dad, or even for you?”

She heard Arya let out another plaintively exasperated sigh. “Gods Sans… Just do whatever makes _you_ happy, for once, and tell everyone else to fuck off.”

“Even you?” She asked, a grin breaking out on her face.

Arya laughed, and Sansa knew she was smiling as well. “Sure, why not?”

* * *

Jon had invited Sansa to dinner at his apartment the next night, telling her that he wanted to apologize for running out so fast, and missing the chance to meet Robb. Part of her didn’t really blame him for being nervous to meet Robb, but the way that he had acted was almost as if he were having a panic attack at the idea of it.

The idea of the Jon she knew having a panic attack was almost laughable given his normal self-assured demeanour, but the more she thought of it, the more it reminded her of her own behaviour shortly after she had left Ramsay. If that were true, she would have to broach the subject carefully. If he were struggling or suffering in some way – in any way similar to how she had – then she couldn’t let him close himself off, and she couldn’t be angry with him.

But the problem was despite them knowing each other for over a month, there was still so much about him she didn’t know. And to be fair, how much can a person really know about another person after only a month?

She knew she loved the way he let his fingers glide lightly against her hand for support when he knew she was sad, the way his face became calm and peaceful when he slept, and how that tugged at something deep inside her. She loved the way he knew not to pity her and somehow instinctively knew how to treat her instead. There was the way it felt to kiss him, and for him to kiss her, and the way he seemed to bring out parts of her that she tried to hide, to push down.

And the more she thought about it, the more she felt like being with Jon made her feel happier than she had been in years, like those parts of her that she thought she had lost forever were coming back to life, like she could be something more than a perfect picture of a young lady.

She dressed in tights and a black wrap-around skirt, pairing it with a lighter blue blouse, remembering how much Jon liked seeing her in blues, and the way he told her it made her hair shine even brighter.

She paused in front of her mirror in the foyer, taking a minute to look herself in the eyes, as she always did when she needed reassurance. The longer she stood there, looking into her own eyes, the more she felt she were looking into her own mother’s. _Tully blue_, she had always called them, and everyone in the family had inherited them, save for Arya.

Arya’s eyes were like their father’s – dark and fierce – a painful reminder of the past for their mother. But Sansa had always found comfort in them, and in her sister, who always seemed to be the embodiment of their father’s strength and determination. Sansa liked to think that Arya was Ned Stark come again in a ratty Ramones sweater and faded blue jeans.

Sansa smiled at that thought, and grabbed her jacket, resolute in what she had to do. Whatever this was that she had with Jon made her happy, and whatever he wasn’t telling her was risking their happiness, and they were going to figure it out, together.

* * *

Jon answered his door in midnight blue khakis and a grey pullover, making her grin and bite her lip trying to hold back a laugh, as she leaned down to give Ghost a pet.

“Is something wrong with the way I look, Stark?” He answered gruffly, smiling through feigned chagrin.

“No, it’s just – you really don’t like wearing colors do you?”

He chuckled as he opened the door wider, inviting her in. “Grey is a color too, you know.”

“Barely,” she replied, walking to his kitchen to get a glass of wine. “What are you making me for dinner?”

He closed the door, and the space between them, his eyes set on the hem of her skirt and the way it flowed slightly open as she walked. “What if I just ate you?”

She bit her lip, smiling, watching him stalking towards her. “Then what would I eat?”

He grinned widely, boxing her in against the countertop. “I have an idea…”

His lips moved to that perfect spot on her neck, kissing her gently, softly, trailing down to the nape of her neck, making her shiver. “Have I told you I love when you wear blue?” He whispered against the sensitive skin, making it prickle with goosebumps. She closed her eyes and leaned into him.

“Every time you see me in it,” she replied, letting her hands run through his soft curls, and pulling him in for a kiss.

“I can’t help it, you just look so good.” He pushed himself against her harder, and she could feel him pressing insistently against her thigh, could feel her own body responding to him. She leaned in and smelled the pine scent of his aftershave. And where it was once thrilling and exhilarating, now it was comforting, and she leaned in even further. It would feel so good, especially after yesterday when they never got to… but that’s why she was here, because of yesterday, and he somehow was finding a way to avoid talking about it.

She sighed heavily, trying to steel herself, forcing her hands away from the temptation of him. She turned away from him and poured herself a glass of red wine, hoping to find the strength for this conversation in it.

“What happened yesterday anyway, when you left?” She asked carefully, trying to avoid an accusatory tone.

Jon pulled away from her, his hands leaving the counter, his eyes ducking to the floor. “It just felt like it was too soon, and I wasn’t ready.”

Sansa took a large sip from her wine, letting it wash over her tongue. Where she hoped she’d find strength, instead it just tasted sour, sitting heavy on her tongue.

“I’ve never met a girlfriend’s family before, and we’ve only been dating for a few weeks…” Jon continued, leaning back against the counter opposite to her. There was less than two feet between them, but the divide was palpable, his body language changed, turned inwards.

She closed her eyes tightly, her fingers moving to massage her temples, giving herself time to think. Everything he was saying was perfectly reasonable, but the way he was saying it, the way his voice wavered, and the way he couldn’t keep eye contact made her gut twist. Sansa thought back to the few guys she had dated, and how even Ramsay and Harry had met her mother, for all the good it did.

“You’ve never met a girlfriend’s family before? Not even in highschool, not even before prom?”

Jon’s eyes darted up from the scuffed linoleum floor, just for a second, and she saw only fear there before they returned to the ground. “Like I said, I only ever got my GED, I never had a prom, and I guess I just haven’t dated a lot of girls before.”

She bit her lip, mulling his words over carefully. She took another sip of wine, but it may as well have been vinegar for all the good it did her.

“You never told me why you dropped out of highschool, why you got a GED instead.” She said softly, letting her expression drop from concern to one of sadness. The bits and pieces of his childhood that he’d told her sounded even worse than her own, and she knew he didn’t like talking about it – but she needed something from him, anything more than he was giving her.

He let out an uncomfortable laugh, pushing his hands through his hair. It was a familiar, disarming movement, and it made her resolve weaken.

“It’s a long story… Like I said, my mom was a piece of work and it was easier just to leave school and leave home and go out on my own,” he said, still looking down, voice soft and mournful.

Sansa nodded, following Jon’s gaze to his mismatched socks; one blue and one black. It was strangely endearing, and every part of her body wanted to reach out to him, to comfort him like he comforted her. But when she looked up, she saw his strained face from the conversation. His lips were pulled tight, the muscles in his neck taut, jaw working back and forth under the scruff of his dark beard. Her gaze trailed once more to the empty walls of his apartment.

_ No family photos, no diplomas, no awards, not even a painting or print. _

Had she ever been to a house or an apartment anywhere that was so sparse? He had grown up here in San Francisco, hadn’t he? Shouldn’t there be at least a few photos then, even just of the skyline, or him and his friends, or _something?_

She paused, realizing he had never really answered her when she asked where he grew up. A cold shiver ran up her spine.

“Jon? Where was your home growing up with your mom? What was the name of your highschool?”

She braced herself against the counter, waiting for his answer. The seconds spread out before them until the silence was deafening, until the air in her lungs burned –and she knew she should take a breath – yet she found she couldn’t.

“I’m sorry, I’m just–“ He winced, and she could see his jaw working as he ground his teeth.

Sansa felt suddenly very cold and exposed. She was acutely aware of how close she stood to him and felt herself slowly edging along the counter away from him, her heart pounding in her chest. But this was _Jon_, the Jon who rescued Ghost from an alley, the Jon who tried to cook her dinner, the Jon who made her a picnic. _This is Jon, this isn’t Ramsay. Jon would _never _hurt me._

“Jon, did you grow up here in San Francisco?”

She saw him swallowing heavily, watched his adam’s apple bob up and down, but still his eyes wouldn’t meet hers. “That’s what I said before, isn’t it?”

She couldn’t help it, her eyes darted to the door of the apartment. Why was she doing that?

She lifted the wine glass to her mouth again, trying to will herself to calm down, but her hand was shaking so much she almost spilled the glass. She took a big gulp, trying to will her body to swallow it down.

“Jon?” She asked, trying to stop the waver from her voice, and failing.

He edged along the counter towards her, following her slowly, carefully, but his eyes still wouldn’t meet hers.

“Yes?”

“I need you to look me in the eye and tell me you’re being honest with me right now, because I think you’re lying to me. None of this will work, this will all fall apart if you’re lying to me.”

His eyes were frozen wide as they met hers, and they looked like dark pools of water in a cavern. She couldn’t shake the feeling that if she jumped in, she’d never find her way out. She suddenly wished she hadn’t asked him to look her in the eye at all, because it was absolutely and completely disarming.

And the longer she looked, the more she seemed to remember _something._ Was it a memory? A dream? A nightmare?

There had been a girl lying in a hospital bed, skin white as porcelain, hair red as blood. _Was she dead? _When Sansa had reached her hand out to touch the girl’s skin, it had been ice-cold to the touch, and the girl’s hand had snapped out and grabbed her arm, freezing her in place. And then the girl’s eyes had opened, and they had been dark grey, storm clouds in a summer sky. Those eyes had looked so familiar, all consuming, a reminder of something from the past.

She had had that dream the night after Jon had taken her for their picnic at the Golden Gate Bridge. The night after Jon had joked and called her ADA Stark. How had he known that? Why had he said that?

She swallowed hard, and it was as though something was ripping her apart from the inside out, something was tugging its way back from a small, dark corner of her mind.

“How did you know I wanted to be a lawyer?” She asked, eyes darting once more to the apartment door, unbidden. This time, Jon’s eyes followed hers, and when her gaze returned to his face, he stared right back at her. She was gripping the counter top so hard her fingers were going numb.

“What do you mean?”

“That day, when we had our picnic, you called me ADA Stark. My father, before he died was a DA. Why did you make that joke?”

He swallowed hard once more, his expression morphing to one of abject fear, eyes still trained on her own.

“I don’t know, Sansa. It was just a joke.”

She shook her head violently from side to side, and she knew that she was shaking now. “You’re lying,” she made a queer smile that looked more like a grimace, still shaking. “Your eye twitches when you lie to me.”

“Sansa, please… I’m sorry,” he said, but it was like he was a hundred miles away now, because all she could see were Jon’s dark grey eyes staring into her, and she felt frozen in place, transported back to the worst day of her life.

“Oh gods, no...” The words slipped slowly from her mouth, like sap in late fall, thick and heavy.

She could feel his fingers lightly touching her arm, and she knew he was saying something, but she couldn’t hear anything anymore other than the beating of her own heart, and the blood rushing in her ears, and those eyes, those god damn eyes were looking at her, and she knew now where she’d seen them before, why she’d dreamt of them that night.

“Sansa? Sansa, what’s wrong?” He asked, but nothing he said mattered now, because she remembered it all, suddenly, violently.

She remembered the blood and the sound of the gun shots and the way that her father had felt strangely light lying in her arms as they waited for the ambulance.

A thousand small things that she had spent the past 7 years trying not to think about came back to her in a blur. There was the way the store clerk had smelt of fear, acrid and covered in cold sweat. It was her father’s voice, stern and calm, and the way he had pushed her behind the counter. There was the way the store smelled vaguely of stale tortilla chips, how dirty the linoleum tile had been and how sad it had made her that her father should have to lie there like _that_, on the dirty floor. It was how her ears had rung for minutes afterwards, the smell of gunpowder in the air, sulphuric and tingly in her nose. 

But most of all, she remembered grey eyes, staring in at her through the partially fogged glass of the convenience store as she had run to her father’s side. They had only been there for a second, and when she had looked up again, they had been gone. She hadn’t even been certain she’d seen them at all.

“You were there,” she whispered, trying with all her strength to stay standing, fingernails digging into the countertop, but the laminate wouldn’t yield. And she saw the only confirmation she needed in the fear that now covered his face, in the guilt and shame that caused his head to drop, unable to hold her gaze any longer. “You were there, that night. You saw me, you saw my dad…”

“Sansa, Sansa please. Please listen to me.” He was begging now, his hand dropped from her arm, and he looked so scared, like that little boy again.

She shook her head violently once more, trying to move away from him, trying to get distance. How could he have been there that night? How could he have been there that night and never told her?

_ But if I run now, I’ll never find out_, she thought, looking from Jon to the apartment door once more. It was fewer than 100 steps, and she’d have a head start, but her decision had already been made, she wasn’t going to run anymore.

“You need to start telling me the truth, Jon,” she said, her voice impossibly calm and measured, belying the voice inside her that was screaming, telling her to run as fast as she could from his apartment.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you thought!


	12. I’ll Be Whoever You Want Me To Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa confronts Jon about all the things he's been keeping from her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone still reading, Thank you!!!!! Writing this fic has been a joyful struggle, so thank you for sticking it out with me, and for all of your comments and support! I read and love every single one =)
> 
> Anyway... back to the kitchen, back to Jon and Sansa, back to his mismatched socks and Ghost curled up in a corner watching the humans have a necessary, but painful discussion.

**Sansa**

"You need to start telling me the truth, Jon."  
  
As the seconds ticked by and they stood there in silence, Sansa was surprised to find the calmness in her voice extend through her body, enveloping her in a strange feeling of resoluteness and determination. She had every right to be afraid; but instead she felt in control, unafraid, and angry.

And the longer Jon stood there silently, the more sure she was that she needed to know the truth, had to understand who he was. Why was he there that night when her father was shot? Why did he never tell her? She felt her mouth twist as she bristled with anger. He had no right to keep that from her, no right to lie to her.

Though she was afraid of what he was hiding – of what the truth must be – her own resentment and curiosity seemed to be narrowing her focus to only this room, to her and Jon and Ghost, as though the rest of the world had melted away.

She looked up to him, studying his face once more and finding no malice. If anything, he seemed afraid of her. For the first time, she noticed the dark bags under his eyes and the sorrow that haunted his eyes. This was a part of himself that he’d been hiding from her – probably from everyone – for a long time. She wondered whether he had trouble sleeping sometimes too. Did he wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of gunshots? Did he dream about the way the blood had pooled on the tile, how it had soaked into her jeans when she knelt in it?

Sansa pushed down the knot in her throat and switched her gaze across the room to find Ghost. He lifted his head from his paws and let out a contented yawn, before stretching out lazily on the floor. Jon had rescued him, had raised him, loved him. Bad men didn’t rescue stray dogs and care for them, did they?

She looked into Ghost’s kind, baleful eyes and wondered if it were even possible for bad men to raise good dogs. If a person has darkness inside them, shouldn’t it seep into everything around them? Or does it sit alone inside their hearts festering? Can good men do bad things, or is it all only bad men, who sometimes do good things? Which one was Jon?

_That really depends on what he’s done, _she thought, chewing on the inside of her cheek, eyes passing back from Ghost to Jon. Jon’s face was plastered with pain, worry lines cutting across his face, guilt hiding behind his eyes as he winced under her gaze.

She thought about all the things Jon had said since they met, all the ways he seemed to know everything about her. What else was Jon lying to her about? Indignation bubbled up from deep within her at the thought that just like every other man in her life, Jon was _handling _her.

“Jon, I need you to talk, I need you to say something. I need you to tell me who you are, why you’re here,” she said carefully, breathing deep and slow to calm the voice screaming out inside her head, telling her that she would not be handled anymore, not by anyone.

Jon looked at her desperately, but this time she did not relent. She fixed her jaw in place, dug her fingernails into the counter even harder, and looked right into him as though he were her own reflection.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered quietly, the words barely audible.

“What are you sorry for? What did you do?”

“I – I just wanted to keep you safe,” he half-whispered.

“Safe from what? Jon, why were you there that night? Why didn’t you stay?”

“I was scared. I’ve never been more scared in my life than I was that night.” Jon sighed as though his strength was leaving his body, as though he were resigning himself to his fate. Whatever that fate was, Sansa wasn’t sure. He closed his eyes tightly, his hands curled slowly into fists. “I should have stayed. Every day I wake up and I regret it, and every night I stay awake looking up at the ceiling wishing I could go back, that I could have done something better.”

He stood there looking at his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I just – I just went to the store for a bag of chips.” He made a hollow bark of a laugh, and it rang awkwardly through the half-empty apartment.

Sansa felt a pang rush through her chest, felt the air leave her lungs as all the pieces came together; the morning she’d found him on the bathroom floor, the guilt and regret that sat so deep she could see it melded into the very fabric of his being, sutured to his soul. 

If he had told the truth about his age, he couldn’t have been older than 16 that night. She wondered if at any point in the past 7 years he’d told anyone about what he had seen that night, but a nagging voice in her head told her he probably hadn’t. All the love and support she had gotten over the years from her mother, from Robb, Bran, Rickon, and even Arya had helped her get her life back on track. Even though sometimes it was misguided, it was nice to not feel alone, to feel loved, to feel supported.

She then thought about all the sessions in therapy, and all the guilt that she had internalized, all the guilt that still sat there deep inside her even now. How much worse would it be if she had never had a therapist at all?

Jon had said he had left home at 17, had left his mother. If that were true, it must have happened only a few months after her father had been shot. He would have left the only support he had behind. She chewed at her lip, thinking about a 17-year-old boy living alone, working to pay for rent, for food, all while trying to process what he had seen. The pang in her chest grew stronger, as though there were a sharp sword sitting against her breastbone, pushing steadily against her lungs, her heart.

_Would I have ever made it through alone? Can anyone really, truly heal on their own?_

But why didn’t he tell her, that first day, or any day after? She sucked in her breath, preparing herself.

“How could you have been there that night, and never told me? We’ve known each other for over a month, and you’ve never said anything…” She trailed off as a dark thought passed by her mind; that the only way that he could know her so well, the only way he could be here in San Francisco… Maybe he hadn’t been at the right place at the right time that day, maybe him saving her hadn’t been fate?

She felt herself begin to shiver, frozen solid under his careful gaze. He didn’t say a word in reply or defense, and instead those dark grey eyes bore relentlessly into her, daring her to say the words aloud as though he had resigned himself to his fate.

“Jon? Have you been following me?”

It was as though uttering the words aloud made it all suddenly very real, and even though he hadn’t said a word to deny or accept her words as truth, she saw it all very clearly in his eyes; guilt and regret and overwhelming sadness.

“I just wanted to keep you safe,” he whispered once more, as though it were a mantra. He pulled his hands through his hair in exasperation. Sansa watched as the dark curls wrapped around his fingers before slowly letting go, bouncing back in place. “I couldn’t keep you safe that night, but I’ve tried to keep you safe since then. I told myself I’d keep you safe, I –”

He tried to take a small step towards her, and she felt a sudden rush of anger swell up once more. If he’d been trying to keep her safe, if he’d been following her for so long, what did he know? Did he know about Ramsay? Did he know about her professor? If he did, he hadn’t kept her safe from either of them. What had he kept her safe from then?

She felt an uncomfortable dichotomy within herself, where part of her wished he had done more, had kept her safe from Ramsay – how much pain could that have saved her from? – while the rest of her was rioting against that notion. It itched at her insides; feelings she didn’t want to acknowledge scraped at the walls of her mind, desperate to escape.

She wanted to run away, to never see his face again. She wanted to scream and yell and hit him. And yet another part of her wanted to rest in his arms again, to breathe him in – crisp pine and warm leather. She could feel everything she wanted to do bubbling up within her, sitting just under the surface. Instead, she let her fingernails bite into the flesh of her palm as she released herself from the counter, taking one step towards Jon.

“You had no right,” she replied quietly, fixing her eyes to his, nostrils flaring.

He dipped his head down once more in guilt, but she found she didn’t want his guilt anymore.

“Every man in my life has decided my life for me. They’ve decided when to protect me and when to hide things from me. They’ve decided what I should do with my life, and who I should date, and who I should be. They’ve decided where I should go, how I should think and speak, and now – now I’m not sure what’s left that is me. Gods, I don’t even know what I want to do with my life!” She cried out, feeling a weight lifting from her chest at the admission.

She felt stronger now, empowered by the quiet reserve on Jon’s face. “I’m done. I’m not leaving until you tell me everything, until you tell me who you are and how you were there that day I almost got hit by a car. I’m not leaving until you tell me how long you’ve been following me.”

Jon sighed, and closed his eyes slowly. He looked sad – infinitely tired – and a small part of her felt sorry for him. She pushed that irrational thought down.

When he opened his eyes again, they were soft and watery. He turned away from her and reached over on the counter to the half-empty bottle of wine, pouring himself a large glass, before dipping the bottle towards her. She looked at the bottle incredulously, before looking back up at him.

“This is going to take some time, if you really want to know everything,” he supplied, offering the wine once more.

She shook her head, biting her lip. He placed the bottle back on the counter. “Water then?”

This time she nodded slowly, carefully. He filled a glass and handed it to her and gestured for them to sit at the kitchen table. He brought the bottle with him to his seat. They sat there in silence for a few more minutes, Jon sipping at the wine, and staring anywhere but at her.

“Jon?” She asked finally, desperate to break the silence. He winced at the sound of his own name, guilt plastered on his face.

“My name isn’t really Jon.” He paused as he watched the shock pass over her face. “I mean – it is now, but it wasn’t when I was a kid. I had it legally changed after I left home.”

Sansa felt her body grow cold. This man in front of her had lied about so much, he’d even lied about his name. A part of her still screamed to leave, but she needed to know. She needed to know who he was, she needed to know why he was there that night, why everything about him was so familiar.

She nodded with clenched teeth, and he took a small, shaky breath in response.

“My name is – was – Aegon. Aegon Targaryen.”

The name sounded familiar to her. Hadn’t there been an Aegon in Robb’s class?

Aegon Targaryen.

Her mind fumbled over the letters as she drudged through her memories. A skinny boy in Robb’s grade, with buzz-cut hair and sweaters two sizes too big for his body. A sullen boy with sad eyes and a sad story that everyone knew, because everyone talked.

Aegon Targaryen.

_Gods._ A jolt of ice flashed through her body; a cold shiver, winter snow storms and grey skies, grey as those sad eyes.

“Why?” She whispered, unable to strengthen her voice, every muscle in her body sluggish and heavy. “Why did you change it?”

“I needed a new start. I needed to not be weak and stupid and wrong any more. I needed to not be the boy with the shitty life and the shitty house and the father who never bothered to even meet me. I needed to not be me anymore.” He stared determinedly at his wine glass, swirling the wine around, before finishing it in a single swig.

Sansa wanted to be mad at him. She should have been mad at him. She should have stood up and walked away. He had been there that night, he had known Robb, he had changed his name. He had been _following _her for god knows how long. Had anything he’d ever told her been true?

“I deserved to know.”

“I know... But I was so afraid of you finding everything out, afraid of you leaving before I could explain.”

“I’m here now,” she replied. “Explain everything, from the beginning.”

Jon looked up from his wine glass at her.

“You don’t know – you don’t understand – everything I’ve done for you, everything I’ve given up, everything I’ve risked.”

She felt her jaw clench in anger. “I never asked you to, you made that decision for me.”

“I had to, you never would have asked for help. I couldn’t keep watching – I couldn’t –” He winced once more, trying to stop himself from stuttering, trying to stop himself from thinking of something.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself. What could be worse than what he’d already told her? “You have to tell me now, Jon, or I’m leaving forever. No more lies. Gods, what else could you have done?”

He let out another hollow laugh that never reached his eyes, instead furrowing his eyebrows, as though in pain. “Before I tell you, do you think it’s possible for a good person to do bad things? Is it possible for a person to move past the worst thing they’ve ever done?”

Sansa thought about it carefully. She thought about the worst things she’d ever done. The way she used to make her mother worry when she’d stay out late drinking and making terrible decisions, and the way Catelyn had always forgiven her. She thought of how many times she had rebuffed her sister and denied her attempts at friendship. She thought about how she had let her professor take away her agency, her degree, her career, and had never done a thing about it. She thought about how she had punched Harry Hardyng, and how it had felt _so good_, even though it had been wrong.

Then, she thought about the man who had shot her father, and she wished with everything inside that he had not moved past it. She wished that he suffered every day, she wished he would have gone to jail, and she hated that he hadn’t.

“I don’t know,” she responded slowly, letting the syllables roll slowly from her mouth.

He swallowed visibly. She watched his adam’s apple dip up and down along the muscles of his neck, just below where his beard began. “Do you think you could forgive me?”

“I don’t know,” she said again, unable to relent. “Do you think you’re a good man?”

He paused, taking another shaky breath. His brows were furrowed, and he looked as though he were about to be sick. “No, I don’t think I am… but I wish sometimes that you would think I am.”

“What did you do, Jon?”

His face broke into a small, sad smile. “Didn’t you ever wonder why Ramsay gave up and left you alone?”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So warning for next chapter; there will be depictions of violence, though I don't think too graphic. Should give you some insight into why Jon had to do what he had to do.


	13. Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To move on from the past, we must first relive it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning for possible mild Ramsay-based creep factor and upcoming violence (against Ramsay)**
> 
> It's all contained to this chapter, so just skip it if that squicks you and I'll leave a short summary in the footnotes!
> 
> The vast majority of this chapter is told via flashback, and in order to write this I listened to in the woods somewhere by hozier on repeat for several hours... It's been an experience.

**Jon**

Jon watched as Sansa’s expression turned from one of grief to one of confusion, as she mulled his words over in her head. He could see the strain in her face from Ramsay’s name even being mentioned.

“What does Ramsay have to do with anything? How do you even know him?” Her voice was apprehensive, wavering in tone, and it was almost enough to make Jon decide to say nothing. But saying nothing was how he ended up here, it had never done him any favours before.

Jon ran his hands through his hair, letting his hands sit on the back of his neck, elbows square on the table. This would be easier to do if he couldn’t see her, couldn’t feel her judgement. Maybe this would have been easier to say weeks ago, when they first met. Would she have even believed him though?

His hands wiped over his face, as if to clean away his own thoughts from his head. He reached across the table for a carafe of scotch, and poured himself a couple fingers into a tumbler, hoping it would give him some semblance of courage. “We all went to the same highschool,” he said slowly, weighing his next words carefully. “Even after I left, I still – I just – I would read the newspapers sometimes, and one said you were dating Ramsay. I honestly didn’t think much of it, until I ran into him one day at a gym. He was going to have your restraining order against him lifted.”

Jon looked up to see Sansa’s eyes darken with fear. He never really knew what Ramsay had done, but he could guess easily enough. There are so many things a man like Ramsay could do without leaving a single visible mark. He watched Sansa swallow thickly, watched the muscles of her throat constrict painfully.

“The police told me he ran away,” she replied, biting at her lip, “No one’s seen him in years.”

Jon took a deep breath, and let it leave his body as a slow, shuddering sigh. “And no one ever will again.”

_No more lies,_ he thought as he prepared himself to tell her what he had done, wondering if she would ever see him the same again, could ever forgive him.

* * *

Jon was knelt on a plush persian carpet, every muscle in his body screaming, his head pounding, hands shaking and covered in blood. He had thought that an expensive carpet like this would hold it all, but the damn thing can’t seem to be able to even do that right.

As he knelt, he thought of when he learned in biology class that there is just over a gallon of blood in the average human body. One gallon separating us from life and death - something he had seen before firsthand. It seemed like so much more than one gallon now though, when it was him who’d have to clean it all up, him who'd have to pack things away, strip the house of all expensive items, stage a very different scene.

His head slumped forward, exhausted, defeated. It was going to be a long night.

He hadn’t meant to kill Ramsay, he’d only meant to scare him. But here was a guy who thought it was perfectly acceptable to hurt an innocent girl, a girl who was only 18 years old. Here was a guy who thought it was a good idea to threaten Jon, to threaten _Sansa. _No, that was unacceptable. And besides, guys like Ramsay never changed, and they always had enough money to skirt the law.

He had broken into the Bolton estate on a night that Ramsay’s father was out of town. That part was easy since Roose Bolton was rarely ever home. Sneaking up on Ramsay himself had proven more difficult, as he had several guard dogs prowling the house. But Jon had always had a way with dogs, and he had distracted them and closed them off in an empty wing of the house. From there, he had moved slowly, quietly to what he believed was Ramsay’s room.

Jon had dressed all in black, tied his hair back, and pulled a mask over his head. He only wanted to threaten Ramsay and couldn’t risk being recognized. Ramsay had gone to the same high school and had only been one grade higher than Jon.

Jon had had enough forethought to leave behind his cellphone, to bring zipties and a utility knife – just in case – but that was all he had thought to do. A flashlight had not occurred to him, he’d never have imagined an inhabited house to be this dark. It was around this moment that all his carefully made plans fell apart, because it’s one thing to plan to jump somebody, and it’s a whole other thing to actually do it in their own house, in near intractable darkness. Jon stood in the inky black of the hallway trying to figure out which room to check first, when an arm curled around his neck, cutting off his airflow. He choked and sputtered for breath, flailing his arms backwards to grab the man behind him.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” Ramsay asked, voice a serpentine drawl.

Jon stayed silent, grabbing desperately at Ramsay’s shirt, trying to claw at _something _for purchase, but it was no use. Ramsay had his arms braced around Jon’s neck, and the grip was only tightening. Jon was barely thinking anymore, and every move was automatic, purely for survival. Thirty more seconds without oxygen and he would lose consciousness, he could already feel the edges of his vision blurring.

It was only then that he remembered the knife that sat in his pocket.

He grunted from the effort of reaching to his pocket, his fingers curling around the cool metal. He flicked the blade up and swiped behind him desperately, a shiver running down his spine as he felt the blade catch something. His stomach lurched up to his throat when Ramsay let out a cry of surprise and let go of Jon, letting him fall to his knees on the ground.

His throat was sore, his lungs were burning, he couldn’t stop coughing, and everything was so dark. There was only a single light from a room down the hall casting dim shadows on the wall, distorting his vision. He looked down at the blade and saw a murky dark stain that must be blood, and felt a wave of nausea overcome him.

“You idiot! Do you know what you’ve just done! I’m going to fucking kill you!” Ramsay barrelled into him, throwing him off balance, pushing them both to the ground. Jon’s knife skittered down the hallway, and gone with it was his upper hand. His muscles were already burning from lack of oxygen, his head swimming and sluggish. He hadn’t anticipated Ramsay would be this strong, stronger even than him. That had been a poor miscalculation.

_Why did I even come here? _He thought, as the corners of his vision began to blur, and his head pounded so fervently it was hard to focus. But his decision had been made for him when he had heard Ramsay bragging to his friends about how Sansa Stark was his girlfriend, and about all the things he would do to her.

Jon had left her alone for a couple years after he dropped out of school, he had tried to move on. He had gotten his GED and tried to forget the girl with the big blue eyes and the bright auburn hair, and the way it shone even under dull fluorescent light. He really had. He’d left home, moving to the other side of the city. He’d left his mother behind, changed his name, changed everything about himself. He wouldn’t ever be that weak or useless again.

It was pure chance that he had walked into that particular boxing gym that day, that he’d seen Ramsay out of the corner of his eye. Jon had heard that Ramsay and Sansa were dating; the Bolton’s were a major political family in Sacramento and the Stark name still held weight, even after all these years. Their names would grace the papers every so often, in discussion of politics and finance. And if he was being honest, he may have googled Sansa once or twice a week, just to check up on her. Even in their limited interactions, something about Ramsay had always rubbed him wrong; like a song sung half a key off, appearance discordant to nature.

He had found himself gravitate towards their group, hoping to eavesdrop. When Ramsay began talking about her Jon felt his face pale, and he knew that he needed to do something. The way Ramsay talked about Sansa – like she was property – made his blood sing, made him punch the bag in front of him even harder.

Then, Ramsay made a terrible mistake. He told his friends about the games he liked to play with her, how she had placed a restraining order against him, how his father knew the district attorney who had replaced Ned Stark, and it would be lifted within a week.

That was when Jon began to make a plan to threaten Ramsay and make sure Sansa would be free to leave. His inaction that night years ago had caused her enough suffering, this was his chance to right that wrong, to not let that happen again. 

* * *

As the oxygen returned to his body, Jon felt his muscles tighten, felt himself coming back to his senses. How long had he been out? Seconds? Minutes? He flicked his eyes open to find himself sitting at an ostentatious oak table, large enough to seat twenty. The table sat atop a large, ornate persian carpet, plush and soft under his feet. He curled his toes inside his shoes, trying to regain feeling in his body.

_How did I get here? Where even is here?_

Jon moved to stand, his tired, aching muscles struggling to lift his body, hands clenched around armrests – but he couldn’t move his arms no matter how hard he tried. He looked down to see they had been tied to the armrests with his own zipties. He flexed his legs carefully to find them free of any bindings. _Thank the gods for small miracles._

“Oh good, you’re up. I thought you were going to sleep through dinner.”

Jon lifted his head from the ties to Ramsay, standing 10 feet away from him with two large plates of food in his hands; a sort of Sunday dinner - except the meat was so rare it dyed adjacent mashed potatoes a dark maroon. The sight made Jon feel queasy.

Ramsay deposited one plate in front of Jon, and the other across the table, where he promptly sat down, pale eyes staring straight at him. It was only then that Jon realized he was no longer wearing his mask – Ramsay knew who he was. Jon winced, this was yet another setback he hadn’t anticipated. He should’ve thought this through better, he knew better than this.

Ramsay turned down to his plate and began cutting up the meat. He lifted a piece to his mouth and took it in, eyes widening in pleasure as he chewed. “Mmmm, venison. Tender, gamey, but so flavourful, when done right.” He paused, cocked his head to the side, and looked down at Jon’s plate.

“Don’t you think so, Aegon?”

Jon flinched at the name – his old name – and Ramsay saw that too.

“Is that not your name? Aegon Targaryen? Or do you not like venison? I promise it’s delicious, I killed it myself,” Ramsay continued, eyes pale and still as milkglass, and still fixed on Jon. Though they were so different from the eyes that haunted him at night, there was something familiar about them; a beady, fixated quality, observing and calculating everything. _A predator's eyes_, Jon thought, feeling the hairs on the back of his head rise.

Jon looked down at the plate, at the massive venison steak, and the pool of blood that surrounded it.

“You know, I think the meat tastes better when you’ve watched the animal die. There’s something about knowing the animal suffered just for you – that power, that control – nothing is sweeter.” As he finished, he cut another piece of venison from the steak on his own plate and brought it to his mouth.

_He’s not talking about deer, _Jon thought, a cold shiver travelling down his spine. He wondered if maybe he’d underestimated Ramsay, maybe Ramsay was worse than even he thought. Did Sansa know that she had dated a monster?

“Oh silly me, of course you can’t eat it!” Ramsay exclaimed excitedly, eyes gleaming with a frenetic glee. “I’ve left you nothing to cut it with! Let me help you, Aegon. Something tells me you’d like venison, if you tried it just this once. Maybe once you’ve had a bite, you’ll find you can’t stop yourself from having a bit more. I know I couldn’t.”

Ramsay smiled and stood, stalking to Jon with a cat-like grace, only belied by a small limp in his right side, from where Jon had cut him with the switchblade. Jon watched his body favouring his abdomen, and an idea began to form in Jon’s mind.

_Now or never_.

Jon flexed his legs, prepared for the right moment.

Ramsay landed just to the side of Jon and began to cut the steak into small pieces. He lifted a piece to Jon’s mouth. “Here, taste some, I really think you’re going to like it –”

Jon stood, taking the chair with him. Before Ramsay could move, he rammed the edge of the armrest right into Ramsay’s side, where the blade had cut into his flesh. Ramsay dropped the knife and fork as he screamed out in pain, one hand moving to protect the area, while the other lurched out and hit Jon against his face. Jon felt his lip split from the force, but his head was singing so loud with adrenaline he didn’t feel the pain.

Blood soaked through Ramsay’s shirt – the earlier cut must have been worse than it initially seemed. Once more, Jon rammed the armrest against Ramsay, against his hands and his middle as hard as he could, ignoring the screams. There was no time for guilt or regret, no time for second thoughts. Unless he could get the upper hand, there was only one possibility; him or Ramsay. Ramsay collapsed to the floor, blood oozing from his side, from his hands, dripping to the floor.

Jon dropped to his knees and quickly grabbed the knife in his fingers. He tilted the knife back flush to the armrest and sawed at the ziptie. It broke open in seconds and took even less time to free him of the other ziptie, once he had a full hand free. The chair fell to the ground beside Ramsay.

Ramsay looked up at him, and Jon expected to see fear in those eyes. Instead, there was only a queer sort of defiant malice, as though he believed himself to still be in control of the situation. _He isn’t though_, Jon thought, as he allowed himself a small feeling of victory when he punched Ramsay right in the face, knocking him out. He pocketed the knife and deposited Ramsay onto the same chair that he been tied to and sat him up. He left him sitting slack in the chair, unconscious, as he went in search of the zipties.

As he traced his steps back through the hallways, he began carefully running his options through his head. Every muscle in his body was screaming, his lower lip was split and bleeding. He looked down at his hands to see blood there too. Was it his, or Ramsay’s?

Everything tasted of rust, of copper pennies, making his mind drift to flashes of copper hair, to a memory from years before. He gulped as his brain filled with visions of the past, small things he’d tried to hard to push down, keep away. Fogged up windows, a small man with greasy, black hair, the glint of a gun, dirty linoleum tile, bright blue eyes – all the more jarring when she began to scream.

There had been a lot of blood then too.

No, this wasn’t what he had planned at all.

He had to think quick, he couldn’t make any more mistakes. In this state, in this moment, that would be his downfall. And it was so possible, so likely that he would, and he already had. Why had he left Ramsay alone? _Zipties._ He needed zipties.

His mind was wandering, wavering, and it was difficult to focus now. As he walked, he came across the discarded utility knife, covered in Ramsay’s blood, and bent down to pick it up. He felt a cold shudder pass through his body as he wiped it clean against his shirt. No matter where he looked though, he couldn’t find the ties.

Jon walked back into the room to see Ramsay awake and standing, his face curled into a terrible smile. Jon felt his fingers tighten unconsciously around the utility knife, as he squared himself up against Ramsay, separated by less than twenty feet.

“Leave Sansa alone. Stop dating her, never talk to her again. Agree to that and I’ll let you go.”

Ramsay burst out laughing, the laugh never reaching his eyes. Those stayed dead, fixed on Jon, on the knife. “I think you’re misunderstanding the situation here, Aegon.” Ramsay gestured around them, at the room. “It’s you who should be listening to my demands, or I’ll make sure you suffer.”

He cocked his head to the side in an almost amused fashion and walked carefully around Jon to the kitchen. He opened a drawer and pulled out a chef’s knife, long and sharp, glinting under the overhead pot light. He looked at it calculatingly, turning it over and over in his hand.

“What is your plan here anyway, Aegon? And why do you care so much about Sansa?”

Jon swallowed hard and grimaced as he tried not to think about rolling waves of long, auburn hair, bright blue eyes that could drown him if she just gave him a chance…

Ramsay smiled incredulously, looking almost crazed. “Oh no, do you have a crush on Sansa? Is that really it?”

Ramsay advanced, starting to corner Jon, knife in hand. Jon looked at the knife, noting with dismay that a knife that long would grant significantly more reach than the utility knife. He felt his jaw clench, his mind was whirring, trying desperately to focus on Ramsay, on the room – but instead for some reason it focused on the carpet below him, on the ornate, geometric pattern of the border, and the way it repeated over and over again, encircling him.

He watched the repeating pattern as his possibilities narrowed down to just one. He didn’t want to do this, and some part of him knew there would be no going back from this night. From now on, every time he looked in a mirror would he see himself, or what he did this night?

“She’s so good, so sweet you know…” Ramsay continued, in a saccharine tone, “Well of course _you_ don’t know Aegon. A girl like Sansa would never look twice at you, would she? Does she even know you exist?”

Jon inhaled sharply and backed up a bit further just as Ramsay walked forward towards him, crossing onto the carpet, his feet breaking the pattern of the border. A sudden calm clarity washed over Jon as he accepted his fate, accepted what he had to do next.

He nodded towards the carpet, looking Ramsay straight in those cold, pale eyes. “How much does a carpet like that cost?”

Ramsay laughed at him incredulously. “More than you could ever afford.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TL;DR Ramsay was going to get the restraining order lifted, and Sansa was in danger. Jon went to coerce Ramsay to leave her alone, and his plans went wrong. In the end, his only option left was to kill Ramsay, and make it look like he ran away.
> 
> *takes deep breath* Okay, the hard part is now done, everything is finally all out in the open. Tbh I've been dreading posting this chapter for a long time, so I'm glad that it's now behind me and we can _finally_ work on rebuilding!


	14. Back to the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has to decide what to do now that she knows everything Jon is, and what he's done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how many people have stuck it out this long, but for anyone who has, thank you so much for bearing with me!! It's been a long, hard road, and I probably picked far too ambitious a storyline for my second multi-chapter fic ever. But here we are in the home stretch!
> 
> Special thank you to @chocolateghost for your patience and betaing expertise =)

**Sansa**

Sansa would always remember the night that her father died. She remembered the small waiting room in the hospital, and the acrid sickly smell that was poorly hidden by the scent of floral cleaning supplies. She remembered the nurse who told her that her father was dead, and the pity in her dull brown eyes that masked as sympathy. 

More than that though, Sansa remembered the sinking feeling in her stomach as if she were falling from a drop tower without a harness, and the pain in her chest like a vice had surrounded her heart, squeezing so hard she couldn’t breathe or think. Every other pain she had felt in her life felt so small compared to the knowledge that a piece of herself had disappeared along with her father, that all those memories and experiences she had would never be the same again. 

She had always wondered how it would feel to lose someone else; whether the pain would be as bad as when her father died.

She hadn’t expected this though.

As soon as Jon told her Ramsay was dead, it felt as though she were waking from a nightmare, as though her lungs were rapidly expanding with that first voluntary gasp of air, and the moment of clarity that followed was dizzying, nearly overwhelming.

Without looking at Jon, Sansa stood up and walked to the bathroom in a daze, letting her hand run along the wall of the corridor to keep her steady. It felt as though the walls were tunneling in around her, spinning at such a maddening pace she couldn’t walk straight.

Even though her mind was screaming that what he had done was wrong, another part of her wanted to thank Jon. She wanted to tell him it was all going to be okay, but how could it be after everything he’d done? 

_No, I need to think._

She closed the bathroom door behind her and locked it carefully. Water came out in a torrent from the sink when she turned it on; cold as ice, jarring her senses, grounding her. It rushed over her hands and she splashed it over her face, trying to clear her mind.

Her eyes caught her own reflection in the mirror above the sink, and she paused to look at herself. The remnants of tears streaked down her cheeks, catching and reflecting the dull fluorescent light. She wiped them away, and tried next to clean smudged mascara from her face. 

When she was finished, she stood there for a time, gazing into the reflection of her eyes, so similar to her mother’s eyes - Tully blue. But even in her own irises she could see small, striking lines of white and grey radiating outwards, swirling and intermingling with the blue.

_Nothing is ever as simple as it seems from afar, _she thought, worrying at her lip.

_I’m mad at Jon for lying to me, for what he’s done… but I’m happy that Ramsay’s dead, that he’ll never bother me again, that Jon protected me._

She knew she shouldn’t be, she knew that it was horrible to think these things, and that Jon had done a terrible thing. She knew that murder should never be justified, that it was always wrong – and yet the only thing she felt was a frenetic sort of relief.

What would have happened if the restraining order had been lifted? Would Ramsay have followed her to San Francisco? Would he have tracked her down? What new games would he have learned to play in their time apart? She felt a shudder pass through her body as memories she had spent years pushing down came bubbling to the surface. Memories of a man with pale, dead eyes that looked at her as though she were his property, and hands that treated her as such. A wave of nausea hit her, and she leaned further over the sink.

After her father’s death, Sansa had lashed out by partying and drinking, by making so many mistakes she could never take back. Instead of acting out though, Jon had stayed behind and decided to protect her. Why had he done that, sacrificed so much for her?

At the same time, how many things had he lied about since they met, and for years before that? Why couldn’t he have just come forward earlier, on that night all those years ago? Why had he run?

Sansa tried to imagine exactly _how _her life would have been different had he come forward years earlier, but nothing would crystallize in her mind. How could she really be mad at Jon for running, when she’d spent the better part of her own life doing the same?

_Because if he would have come forward earlier, I wouldn’t have felt so alone._

She closed her eyes tightly and gripped the edge of the bathroom counter tight for reassurance, but no matter what she tried, no matter how long she stood there she could neither forgive Jon, nor could she hate him.

Where did that leave her though?

She let her legs slowly fold beneath her, sliding down to the cool tile floor, and rested her head on her knees. Minutes stretched out seemingly endlessly while she was trapped in the same cycle over and over again, until she heard Jon knock quietly on the door.

“Sansa?” His voice was hoarse and rough, though she couldn’t be sure if it were from the scotch or from something else. “Sansa, I’m – I’m sorry. I know I fucked up. I know. I fucked everything up.”

She heard a scraping sound against the wall outside the door and realized he was sliding down to sit on the floor too. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, this time almost inaudible through the door.

His voice pulled at her heart, sad and full of regret.

_Do bad people apologize for their wrongs? Do they even have regrets?_

_No, I don’t think they do._

They sat there in silence for a time, separated only by the door. Sansa tried to piece together everything Jon had said, make sense of everything he had done, trying to reconcile the man outside the door with a man capable of doing everything he’d done. 

She leaned over and let her head fall softly against the wooden bathroom door. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why didn’t you introduce yourself years ago?”

The sound of his steady breathing carried through the door, but he didn’t answer immediately. Sansa traced the pattern on the floor tiles with her finger, wondering where it began, and where it ended.

“All I could think of was that it would have been so much worse to have met you again and had you hate me, so it was easier this way, never meeting you at all,” He paused to collect his thoughts. “When I finally did meet you again that day outside the coffee shop, it was only because I had no other choice, I couldn’t watch you get hurt again.” 

She thought about that day and wondered how different everything now would be if he hadn’t stepped in and helped her. How badly would she have been hurt? How much further off course would her life had fallen? 

He took a long, shaky breath. “I tried to make sure I was exactly what you wanted in a man, to make sure I would be everything you needed and wanted. But now, after everything I’ve done, you must hate me.” 

“I don’t hate you,” Sansa said carefully. “I don’t understand you, and I’m not sure that I can ever forgive you for everything you’ve done, because gods Jon, you’ve done a lot of wrong things… but I don’t hate you.”

She heard the dull sound of his head hitting back against the wall. “I know what I’ve done was wrong. I knew it was wrong as I did each goddamn stupid thing, but I did them anyway. I’m sorry Sansa... I just – it felt like I was keeping a promise by keeping you safe, making up for failing you that night.”

“You didn’t fail me, you were just a kid,” she whispered softly.

Would everything always come back to that night for the rest of their lives? Was everything he had done because of what he’d seen that night? A pang of empathy for him ran through her chest, and she unlocked and opened the door to see him sitting on the floor as well, tears streaming down his face. She leaned in and wiped a tear from his cheek, trying to ignore her own tears that threatened to come. 

“I – I don’t agree with what you’ve done, and I hate that all I feel right now is relief. I should feel angry, I should feel disgusted, or scared, or anything else. I should be mad at you for lying to me for so long – and I am, I really am, but-”

She paused and looked at him, anguish painted on his face in broad, vicious strokes that highlighted the dark circles under his eyes. Weariness had pulled the angles of his face taut, and he looked strangely haunted like this, a shadow of the man she had met weeks ago. Yet seeing him like this, stripped down and bare before her, knowing that beneath all his boldness he was just as scared and broken as she was, was strangely comforting.

Her mind drifted to all his old dog-eared books. She thought of him standing outside her apartment with a bouquet of winter roses, and how he had comforted her that night, helped her forget. She remembered the day they had talked about his family, and how much that had hurt him to talk about, and yet he’d done it anyway, for her. Her mind filled with memories of croissants and coffee and lemon pie on a blanket by the ocean, and a voice calling out in her mind _You’re a good man, Jon Snow._

It occurred to her then that the night her father died, both their lives had become intertwined without her ever knowing it. What they both saw changed the course of their lives, and that feeling she had when he pushed her from the path of that car – that feeling that he knew and understood every part of her – was because it was all a part of him as well. 

“I don’t think you’re a bad person.” She said finally, tentatively. “Gods help me, I don’t. I think you’ve done bad things, but I don’t think you ever wanted to hurt me, I know you were trying to protect me.”

She placed her hand on his, noting how the warmth and roughness of it against her skin quieted the noise in her head. He looked down at her, dark eyes wide and searching. It would be so easy to just let herself drown in them – in him.

“I love you, Sansa,” he whispered, his fingers holding her own tightly as though his words would cause her to slip away.

Instead, she leaned over and kissed him forcefully, her lips grinding hard against his. She didn’t want softness or gentleness now, she wanted to be grounded by him, for him to make her forget all the things he’d done to keep her safe. She wanted that strength and dangerous resolve enveloping her, to deny everything that hurt too much to admit.

He returned the kiss with the same sort of desperate fervor, his hands roaming to the back of her neck, crashing and tangling into auburn waves, pulling her in closer until she fell into his lap. She relaxed into his arms, into his kiss, into the feel of his soft curls in her hands. She was entangled in everything that was him; a strong, constant comfort like the roll of ocean waves against the hull of a ship. She wanted to bury herself in his chest, get lost in the sound of his steady heartbeat.

It would be so good to feel good again, for relief, to forget.

But her body froze as she realized that this now, easy as it would be, would just be a different kind of running away. Neither of them would ever move on if they kept going like this.

She broke away, desperate for breath.

“We can’t do this,” she choked out, pushing herself off him and standing up to get distance. “Not after everything that’s happened.”

He looked up to her from his knees, his face taking on a sort of frenzied concentration from this angle. “What do you want me to do, Sansa? Do you want me to go to the police and confess? Turn myself in? Do you want me to go to jail?” He gulped and she watched the muscles of his jaw clench and unclench as he knelt before her. “I’ll go right now if you ask me to.”

Sansa stood frozen before him, looking down at him, considering his words. Would he do that for her? Give up his future, years of his life? The way he was looking at her told her that he would do anything she asked of him, and the idea that his fate sat squarely in her hands was both heady and terrifying. 

How could she ask him to give up any more of his life than he already had? How could she be mad at him for trying to protect her from that monster?

“No, I don’t want you to go to jail," She began, her voice shaking with the weight of her words. "And maybe that makes me just as terrible as you, maybe it makes me complicit to everything you’ve done, but I just want to leave him in the past, let him disappear." 

“What do you want then, Sansa? I’ll do whatever it takes to fix this,” Jon replied with nervous apprehension.

_We go back to the beginning._

He wouldn’t want to hear these words, and she knew how hard it would be for him to relive that night, to go back to the beginning and change what he’d done. And even more than that, she knew it wouldn’t solve so many other things… but it was a first step, the only one that mattered.

“Would you be willing to go to the police and tell them you were there that night my father died? Would you come forward and give them a description of the man who killed him? I don’t even know if that will be enough to open the case, but I think we need this, to at least try.”

Jon’s hands clenched into fists and he sunk down onto the floor with his jaw set, but there was only determination in his eyes. “If you think it could help, I'll do it.” 

“One more thing,” Sansa added, hating herself for it, but knowing it was necessary. “I can’t do this with you. I need time away from all of this, away from you. I’m not even sure that I can – Jon, I want to – but I’m not sure I can ever forgive you. What you’ve done, it’s not something someone accepts in a week or a month, but if there's any way forward, it starts with you doing this.”

He looked up at her with a pained conviction, hands still clenched into tight fists that were digging into his thighs. “I promise you I’ll find who killed your father, and he will go to jail. I’ll make this right again.”

His words filled her with a strained hope that she tried to temper, because she knew how unlikely it would be that they would find who killed her father. And yet, she felt tears streaming down her cheeks at his words, and all she could think of was how it would feel to begin again, to finally have that closure.

Their eyes met one final time, and she wanted to hold him, to kiss him, to tell him that she loved him too; but in his eyes she also saw all the things that he had done, still so fresh in her mind. She blinked away tears and gave him a small sad smile before walking out the door of his apartment, unsure of whether she would ever see him again.

Sansa stepped out of the building into the cool night air, zipping up her jacket for the walk home. As she began to walk the empty streets, she took stock of everything that had happened that night. She felt immeasurably sad for Jon and for herself, and everything that they had both lost – and yet she also felt that small hope swelling within her heart. It felt as though she had finally taken control of her own life.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((don't worry, she will see him again 😉))
> 
> May 2020 - A quick note for anyone reading. Part of why I got stuck at this chapter was because I worried about the relationship that I was portraying between Jon and Sansa, and how there just is this massive power dynamic issue between them. I am working on finishing the story now, recognizing I don't think I can ever fully resolve that. So I guess just grain of salt, here this is the ending that makes them happy. =)


	15. I Think I'm Ready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years after Jon and Sansa parted, Sansa receives a letter in the mail. She must decide if she is ready to finally face her past in court

**3 years later.**

**Sansa**

Sansa sat on a concrete bench outside Berkeley Law, covered from the midmorning haze by the shadows of its crisp, modern lines. The now familiar letter in her hand had begun to lose the fine fold marks from where it had sat in its envelope, replaced with dog ears and folds of her own.

Each time she would take the letter out and read it, by the time that she had finished, her cellphone would be out and in her palm and that old string of numbers would already be keyed in, ready for her to press the call button. It's just no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't quite press that button.

It had been her who told Jon to leave her alone that last night she saw him. She’d asked for space so she could think about everything that he had told her, all the ways in which he had lied to her. For three years he’d granted that to her. And during those years she’d worked harder than she ever had, at school, at therapy, at life – but with each thing she did, Jon was never far from her mind.

Jon’s words and his promise to find the man who killed her father became a quiet mantra in her head in those first weeks, something that helped her take each terrifying step forward, helped her regain everything she had lost.

She never told Dr. Luwin exactly what had happened, or why she was ready, but he never asked either, as though the why was less important than the singular action of being there, being present, and finally ready for change.

That first appointment she had told Dr. Luwin how she had felt stuck, had been frozen for so long. She’d been presenting him with a perfect picture of herself, demure and put together, good and happy and confident. But it had been like she had grown complacent living someone else's life. That despondency had carried through into every aspect of her world; in her schooling, in her relationships, and in herself. Before she met Jon, she had spent so much time pretending that she was normal and okay, that she had forgotten what it meant to be happy.

She had told Dr. Luwin that she realized now that she was broken, that she was going to keep doing the wrong things until she fixed herself.

He had sat there in his chair, with his crown of gray hair and kind, warm eyes, and put down his notes onto the coffee table. He had leaned forward slightly and tented his fingers together.

_“You don’t need to fix yourself Sansa. People aren’t toys or machines, and we don’t need fixing or repairing. I’m not here to fix you, I'm here to help you _ _heal, to help you feel free, whenever you’re ready.”_

Sansa had looked out the window, watching the birds fly free in the bright fall sky, the sun glinting off the Golden Gate Bridge in the distance. She had spent so much of her life imagining herself as a bird trapped in a cage, it never occurred to her that she could be free too.

When she went home that night, she’d spent the rest of the night thinking about the difference between fixing and healing. She had sat on the thought for a few days, until one night she and Arya had been talking late into the night, and she’d asked her sister what she thought it meant.

Arya had laughed over the phone and asked her if she'd ever seen a broken bone, if she knew how long they took to heal. That was the difference in the end, it seemed; healing takes time.

Toys and machines can swap out parts and become whole once more, as good as they were before in an instant – the body must work only with what it has, and that work is painful and difficult; but Sansa thought that there was something beautiful in that too, in the idea of making something from nothing to mend broken bones.

The next day she had shown up at Dr. Luwin’s office, and she hadn’t turned back since.

When she’d told Jon to go to the police and give them a description of the killer, she hadn’t been certain it would do anything at all. She hadn’t been sure if it would be enough for her to forgive him, and had been pretty certain that it would be too late to help catch the man who did it. Seven years was a long time for a case to go cold, and a description would be so little to go on, it may not have even been enough to reopen the case, but just knowing that Jon had done the right thing had been enough to bring her some degree of hope.

So receiving a letter from the courthouse three years later had been quite a surprise. Her mother had received a letter too, and Arya and Robb as well. They had all met for dinner that night to discuss what the letter said; that a witness had come forward and provided testimony that reopened the case, that the testimony had led to a suspect, and that the suspect had confessed to killing Eddard Stark. Apparently, the stress of hiding the crime for a decade had eaten him up inside, and he could no longer take it. She thought she should feel angry at those words, but instead as she read them she only felt relief.

There would be no trial now, only a sentencing hearing, and they were all invited to attend and read victim impact statements if they wished. Arya, Robb, and her mother had all decided to go that night, but Sansa was still unsure.

For three months now, she had been reading and re-reading it, in between classes, at lunch, at night before bed. Most days she would try to call him after reading, not even knowing what she would say. In her mind, she imagined that she would say thank you, that his voice would be like it’d always been, like honey and whisky in turn, that he’d laugh and call her Stark like he always had.

Some nights when she fell asleep with the letter in her hands, she would dream of him, of sun-tanned leather and pine, and how it felt to be in his arms. 

It was hard to explain, but over time her anger towards him had given way to empathy and gratefulness, because he had seen everything that she had too, and it had only made him want to protect her. If it weren’t for him, she’d still be dating Harry, or even worse, Ramsay. If it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t have had the strength to lodge a complaint and have Professor Baelish fired, and she wasn’t sure if she would have been able to get her degree and go to law school without the relief that that brought.

With each move forward that she made, each fear that she faced, she could feel the control coming back in starts and jumps, and instead of scaring her it only empowered her to keep going, to push even harder, to make her life everything that she dreamed it could be. And with every step she took, Jon always stayed in her mind.

Absentmindedly, Sansa typed the familiar number into her phone again, except this time she pressed the call button, and listened to it ring. 

* * *

**Jon**

When Sansa had left his apartment that night, she had told him that she needed time. She had told him that he needed to go forward to the police and tell them what he saw that night, give them a description of the man that he saw shoot her father.

He had sat alone at the kitchen table all night with his head in his hands, feeling as though he had ruined everything by telling her, or maybe that he’d ruined everything from the start by just not being honest. Either way, he had been certain that he had ruined everything, and that he’d never hear from Sansa again.

This one thing though, he had thought that if he could do that right, if he could go to the police and make them listen and understand and reopen the case, and if he could leave her alone for as long as she needed - even forever if need be - maybe that would be enough. Enough for what he wasn’t certain. Forgiveness? Freedom? Peace?

He hadn’t realized until he told her everything, how much of a toll it had all taken on him. At 23 years old he had had nothing to show for himself but a small, half-empty apartment, a dog, and a motorcycle. Everything he’d hoped and dreamed of doing with his life, everything he had wanted to make of himself had been cast aside for the better part of a decade. He hadn’t even seen his mother in years, had barely kept in touch with her at all.

It had all seemed impossible for so long, the idea of changing or being more, but as soon as he had walked into that precinct and given a statement, he had felt lighter than he ever had in his life.

As he looked back now, so much of his life seemed to have passed by him, and he had sat there frozen, unable to do the right thing. But now, three years since that night, since the lowest moment in his entire life, he had done everything he told himself he would do.

He still missed Sansa so much it hurt, but underneath that was an undercurrent that inspired him to keep fighting, to keep pushing to be better, because he knew it would be what she wanted him to do.

He looked around his new apartment, dark chestnut bookshelves filled to the brim with all the books that he’d read since, dog-eared and well-worn. The walls were full too, with pictures of his mother and his friends, with all the trips they’d gone on and all the places they’d seen, and in the living room beside his desk was his college diploma, framed and hung high. Whenever he looked at it, he would feel a small swell of pride well up within him, and even on the most difficult days it was enough to help him keep pushing forward.

Ghost whined loudly, and Jon looked down at him, scratching him behind the ear. “It’s going to be okay, boy, I promise,” he whispered. Ghost shot him a wary glance, before glaring at his cellphone ringing on his table. Jon leaned over to see Sansa's number, and for a second his heart ceased to beat.

He had waited so long for her to call, why did she have to call _now_? Jon banged his head on the table in frustration, but let it ring and go to voicemail.

“Not until after the hearing,” Jon tried to reason with Ghost, who only responded with a noncommittal huff. “I can’t mess this up until after the hearing, not until that man is in jail.”

Jon thought back to all the things he’d done wrong in his life, and how they all traced back to him running away that night, to never having the guts to stay or go forward to the police. He thought about Sansa’s fear and anger, and her saying that she felt trapped because she never got closure, because they never caught the man who killed her father. 

He needed to do things right for once, needed to wait until after sentencing, until after this was over before he spoke to her again.

What would he say though when he saw her? What do you say to someone who saved your life without even knowing it?

His eyes traced to the bookshelves that lined the back wall of his apartment. He walked to them, thumbing slowly along the spines. His finger finally landed on a weathered old spine of one of his favorite books, one of Sansa’s favorite books too. He took it off the shelf and sat down on the floor to read it again, Ghost curled up neatly with his head resting in Jon’s lap.

* * *

**Sansa**

Sansa could not fight the bile that crept up in her throat as she walked into the old courtroom, covered in pale lacquered wood panelling that extended to the ceiling. There were narrow rows of wood benches on either side of the center aisle, and green carpeting extended throughout the room.

On the far end of the room sat the judge in black robes, shuffling through a stack of papers. On one side of the room sat the crown attorney that she’d met last week, and behind him sat her mother, Robb, and Arya.

Her eyes tracked to the other side, where a man sat in the prisoner’s box, with his defense attorney beside him. Her eyes stalled when she saw him, and in a second she was thrust back in time to the night her father died, to gunshots that burst her eardrums, and the feeling of her father’s body falling limp in her lap. Hot, angry tears began to pour down her cheeks, but she did not look away from him, forcing herself to look.

He seemed smaller now, and his dark, greasy hair had since turned grey. Time had not been kind to him; his skin had a pale, sallow pallor, hanging loose over his bones. His eyes met hers for just a second, before his lawyer whispered something in his ear and he turned back to stare forward once more. 

Sansa looked down at the papers in her hands, at the words scrawled in thick black ink. She had spent days crafting the statement, but even now she was unsure if it would be enough, if anything could ever be enough. For years, this moment had been built up in her mind as though it would be some final catharsis, and that once she came out from behind it, she would finally be better.

Dr. Luwin had warned her that it wouldn’t be like that, but the insistent ache within her chest only grew with each step she took forward. It had taken this man seconds to fracture her life into pieces, and a decade later she was still healing, and all she would have was this one day, this one letter to find peace. Her hands were shaking and clammy by the time she reached the bench and sat down next to her family.

“It’s going to be okay,” Arya whispered in her ear with her jaw set, staring straight at the man who killed their father. “We’re going to be okay.”

Sansa squeezed her sister’s hand and looked back down at the words on the paper, trying to compose and prepare herself.

The next time that she looked back up, the man was looking at her again. His eyes had gone watery, and this time he looked afraid. Some part of her began to feel sorry for him, wondered if he’d spent the past decade lying to himself about what he’d done, if guilt had eaten away at him like sadness had eaten at her.

It reminded her of her father, and how when she would lie as a child, he would stand her in front of that old Weirwood mirror. He’d ask her if she was strong enough to face the truth, and it had never occurred to her until this moment that some people go their whole lives never facing the truths they need to, that the lies consume them from within.

The doors opened once more, and Sansa heard the soft sound of footfalls against the old green carpet. Her heart began to beat heavy against her ribs, sending blood swirling so fast within her head that she felt dizzy and warm. There was no rational reason why she was so certain it was him, and yet she knew it before she even tilted her head up to look.

Her eyes connected with his, and for just a second the world fell away, before she managed to regain composure. He gave her a small smile and took a seat three rows behind her, but even then, she could still feel his eyes on her, warmth radiating out like stones warmed by the sun.

_Why didn't he answer my call?_ The thought repeated over and over in her head, making it hard to focus.

“Is that the man who finally came forward?” Arya whispered harshly, gawking at Jon. “Is that Aegon? Why’d he wait so long?”

Sansa allowed herself one more glance, taking him in fully. Jon was dressed in a charcoal grey suit, the cut of it sweeping over his broad shoulders. His hair and beard were shorter now too, and he looked happier, like a weight had been lifted from him. It would be dangerous to think that he looked just as handsome as he always had, so Sansa bit the word back and hid it somewhere in the back of her mind. It rattled there anyway despite her efforts. 

She tried to swallow the thoughts down, to ignore why he hadn't answered her call, to ignore how his presence made her skin prickle and her body feel unbearably warm. It didn't matter if he didn't feel the same way about her anymore - what mattered was that the man who killed her father was going to jail, because of him.

She flitted her head back quickly, her cheeks flushed and mottled red. “It doesn’t matter how long it took, what matters is that he did the right thing,” she said, feeling her heart begin to beat that old familiar jackrabbit rhythm.

As the judge began to speak, Sansa felt as though she were floating up, disconnected from everything below. She could hear each attorney speak but didn’t register a word. In her mind, she was floating above the ceiling, watching everything happen below, watching them all stand and sit back down like marionettes on a string.

“Sansa?”

She shook her head from her thoughts, and looked to the crown attorney, an older man with thick brown hair studded with fine grey hairs, and a thick scraggle of beard. He gave her a look of concern. “Are you sure you want to do this now? If you want, we can give the letter to the judge and she can read it after the hearing.”

Sansa looked down at her hands, at the jagged lines in her palms, like roads that criss-cross and wind together. She had spent so much of her life believing that life was random and painful, and that the road ahead was all unknown, but now… Her eyes darted over to Jon one more time, and he gave her a warm smile, melting the fear from her veins. It was strange to think that for every big event in her life, he had always been there, had experienced each one too.

“No,” she replied, “I think I’m ready.”

With shaky legs, Sansa stood, flattening creases from her simple black dress. She could feel her heels sink into the green carpet with each step, could feel the eyes of the man who murdered her father upon her, but she knew that her mother and Robb and Arya were there, and Jon too, after all this time.

The steps to the witness box were well-worn, and she could not help but think of all the people who’d sat in this box before, and who would sit after, and if anyone ever really got the justice that they sought, or if justice really just meant closure in the end; a way to begin to heal.

The judge looked down at her sitting in the box, and asked her, not unkindly, to read out her statement.

Sansa looked down at the words on the page, then back up at Jon. The microphone clicked on in front of her, and she began to speak, having long ago memorized the words on her page. “My father was my best friend; he was the man I looked up to all my life. In everything I did, in everything I still do now, there is a piece of him woven within. He remains in every part of my life, all of our lives, but now only as a memory.” Sansa cleared her throat, feeling the lump in her throat swell as she spoke.

“He told me that he couldn’t wait to watch me grow up, how he would see me graduate, would walk me across the stage. He told me that he would hold my hand and walk me down the aisle when I met a man who was kind and who loved me, and he told me that he couldn’t wait to meet his grandchildren someday. He will never do any of those things.”

“Instead, I watched my father die in front of me, and not a day has gone by since then that I have not relived that moment at least once. It has changed every piece of me, and every part of my life, and taken a piece of myself away. If it weren’t for my family, for the love that they’ve given me, I never would have made it through.”

Sansa found herself looking at Jon once more as she said the words, finding strength within his steady gaze. She stood in front of the man who killed her father, and told him all the ways that losing her father had affected her, all the pain that he had caused, how it had been like a hurricane cutting through her life, and how a decade later, she was still learning how to rebuild.

When she was finished, she carefully folded the papers up and tucked them into her pocket, feeling for the latch to the door of the box. Her fingers felt clumsy and numb as the metal gave way and opened to let her out. Dimly, she was aware that the judge was saying something, but she could not hear what she said, the blood was pumping through her ears so fast.

Arya stood to walk up next, her paper torn and folded a half hundred ways. She gave Sansa an encouraging look, before Sansa fell back into the bench, beside her mother. Her mother pulled her hand into her lap and held it tighter than she had ever before, tears streaming down her cheeks too.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, before turning to watch Arya speak.

The rest of the hearing passed like a blur, some moments crawling by so slowly it didn’t feel real, and others jumping forward so fast she could scarcely understand the words. Her mother and Robb gave statements too, and finally the judge gave them her verdict. The man was sentenced to twenty years in jail, and taken away, tears running down his sallow cheeks.

After the hearing, and long after everyone else had gone though, Sansa stayed behind. She sat in the wood bench alone, trying to make sense of it all. Was it always like this, when victims watched guilty people go to jail? There was no victory spinning through her veins.

Instead, what she felt was so strong that once more she began to cry - except this time it was not for fear or for sadness, or for anything but relief so strong it was like she had stepped away from the edge of a skyscraper’s roof, as though life had been taken and given back to her again. She let the tears fall over her, let her body shake with each sob, as though it was something that must be purged from her system.

A hand touched her shoulder gently, and she looked round to see Jon, her heart skipping a beat just by his touch. Up this close she could see just how striking his eyes still were, how sad they were too. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer your calls,” he said, his voice just as warm and gravelly as she remembered it to be. “It’s just – we couldn’t talk before the hearing. I wanted to though, with every fibre of my being. I wanted to hear your voice, needed to know you were–“

Sansa cut him off before he could finish, launching herself into his arms. She buried herself into the crook of his neck, taking a deep breath in, finding leather and pine, and everything that made her feel safe and loved.

“Thank you,” she whispered, feeling his body relax and his arms pull her in tight. There was so much else they needed to say, but for that moment, it was enough. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter will be posted tomorrow!


	16. I Asked the Birds to Forgive Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon go for coffee. 2 years later, Jon has to fight a case of nerves, and Sansa is happy to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smut incoming at the end of this chapter!

**Sansa**

It was a dreary fall day, but Sansa had decided to wear a dress anyway, bright blue with thick wool stockings to keep her legs warm. She shivered and tucked her jacket tighter around herself, looking around for Jon. 

After the hearing, he’d asked if she wanted to go out for coffee to talk someday. Part of her thought that it was still too soon, that they both had so much healing to do, but this was just coffee, just talking – there would be so much time for anything that could come after.

She could feel her heart pounding out of her chest as the motorcycle came to a stop outside the café, and Jon pulled his helmet from his head. His hair was all mussed up from the helmet, like that time long ago at Baker's Beach when she’d tidied it up for him. She couldn’t help but remember how soft it had been then, how the smell of pine had clung to her fingers for hours afterwards. A thrill ran through her at the thought of how his hair would feel now in her hands.

Jon walked up to her outside the cafe, wearing the same leather jacket he always had, making her think of the first time that she’d seen him in it, the way she couldn’t stop herself from gawking after he'd pushed her out of the way of the speeding car. Neither of them had known it then, but that day he'd begun the process of tearing down their lives as they knew them, paving the way for them to finally heal.

He pulled her in for a quick hug, but her arms stayed entangled with his, and she found she didn’t want to let go. Sansa held tightly onto him, her head sitting safe beneath his, until a gust of wind caused her to shiver violently in his arms.

He looked down at her tucked tight against her chest, eyes like burning charcoal staring down at her, a soft smile pulled across his face. “Let’s get you inside, yeah?” He murmured softly.

Inside, the café was busy; a constant, reassuring hum that mingled with the smell of coffee beans in the air, soft jazz music playing in the background. They sat by a small table close to the window, where Sansa could watch the wind whip leaves past the storefront; a kaleidoscope of yellows and reds and oranges. They sat silently for a time, hands clasped round mugs as big as bowls, filled with steaming hot lattes. 

How did they begin? Where should they begin? 

There were a hundred things that she wanted to say, a hundred confessions and a hundred admonitions, but the only one that mattered was a hot brand on her tongue. _I still love you, _she thought as she looked from the window to Jon, traced the thin crow’s lines that had grown in the corners of his eyes. _Gods help me, I do._

It was unfair really, how time could make him more handsome still, or maybe it was because the weight had finally been lifted, because they were finally free, and there were no more lies between them. 

There would always be secrets that they would hold between them, things no one else would know – it was a connection between them that was inexplicable, something no one else could understand – and somehow, she found herself drawn to that notion. When she tried to look forward into her future and picture anybody but Jon, it always came back to him, to the sacrifices he had made for her. There was something peaceful to the thought that he knew her entire past, accepted it, understood it, because he'd experienced it too. 

“Thank you,” she said finally, even though they were not the words that sat heavy on her tongue.

“No,” Jon replied, his expression drawn. “I should be thanking you, for helping me to right the biggest wrong of my life. I should have come forward years ago; it’s because of you that I finally did.”

“You weren’t ready before,” Sansa replied simply, taking a careful sip of her coffee. She remembered what Dr. Luwin had told her so many times during their appointments. “We can’t ever move forward until we’re ready.”

She looked out the window, at the San Francisco skyline and the ocean in the distance, the striking red against blue beautiful in it's sharp contrast. Her eyes tracked back to Jon, to the way he licked his lips, to how his adam’s apple dipped up and back down.

“These past three years, I’ve been working at so many things, trying to become who I always wanted to be. It started with going to the police, and after that it was like with each thing I fixed, I got the strength to fix another, and so on and so on, until–“ Jon paused, flashing her a small, tentative grin. “–I went back to school and I got my college degree. You always said I was smart, and I guess I thought that if you thought that I was, maybe I could be.”

Sansa reached out and pulled his hand into hers, her fingertips tracing the lines that crossed along his palm, watching the way they seemed to mirror her own. “I always knew you were.”

Jon looked down at their intertwined hands, eyes flitting carefully back up to hers. He cleared his throat awkwardly, before asking “What about you, Stark?”

“I started law school this year,” Sansa replied, not trying to hide the pride swelling in her voice. “When we met, I thought that I’d never get there, that I’d lost my way. I had spent so much time doing what I thought people wanted me to do, that I forgot what I wanted. After that night, after you left – it took time, but I think I found my way back to who I wanted to be.”

Jon returned her smile, his hand squeezing hers gently for just a second. “You look happier too.” He paused, fingers pulling back to wrap around the ceramic of the mug instead. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and a lot of reading lately. Well, mostly I just keep reading the one book over and over again actually.”

He leaned over, rummaging in his jacket for a minute, before pulling the book out from the inside pocket. It was old and torn, but she recognized it all the same, and her throat grew tight at the sight of it.

“There’s this one line in it that I can’t get out of my head,” he began, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “It goes like, ‘I asked the birds to forgive me. It sounds senseless, but it is right_,’”_ Jon intoned.

Her heart lurched forward in her chest; she knew the quote and the book it came from so well. A long time ago, when they first met, she had told him that Dostoyevsky was her favorite author, and that this was her favorite book.

_“'_For all is like an ocean, all is flowing and blending; a touch in one place sets up movement at the other end of the earth,_’” _she replied slowly, letting the words roll from her tongue.

She could see Jon biting at the inside of his cheek in nervousness, fingers tapping slowly against his mug. 

“I guess I just like the idea that we’re all connected in the end,” he murmured.

Sansa leaned forward in her chair, noting the glassiness of his eyes. The muscles of his face were pulled and torn tight, and she knew that he had memorized the lines long ago. “Who do you want to forgive you?” She asked, her voice almost a whisper.

Jon cleared his throat, voice suddenly hoarse when he spoke again. “You. I wanted to tell you, I didn’t do this for you – well I did, but in the end, I think I came forward for me. I needed this, to move on. After everything that has happened, and everything that I’ve done to you, you are still here helping me. You deserve so much more, you deserve everything I can’t give you, and even though I don’t deserve it, all I want is your forgiveness.”

She knew that she should be mad at him for everything that he had done, and even though she could see all the ways that he had hurt her and all the things he had done wrong, in the same turn she could see how much he had tried to love her and protect her in the only way that he knew how.

“You helped me too though, you protected me when no one else could. I thought I was destined to be a caged bird, trapped sitting in the rooms of my past for the rest of my life. You set me free.” Sansa took a deep breath, looking outside at the leaves floating in the breeze. “I forgive you.”

Jon reached out and held her hand again, and she was certain that he could feel her heart beating faster than it ever had, his fingers inching up to rest on her wrist. “I set you free?” He asked with that voice of honey and whisky and all the things she’d told herself she’d never need again.

She caught her lip under her teeth, watching the way his eyes tracked the movement. “Yes, but – I don’t think I’m a bird, at least not anymore.”

Jon’s face broke into a wide grin, and he looked her up and down, appraisingly. “No, I don’t think you ever were. You have always been something stronger, a survivor, like a wolf.”

Sansa couldn’t fight the laugh that escaped from her mouth. “A wolf?”

“Yeah,” Jon replied. “Strong and smart and with teeth that could cut me to pieces if you wanted to.”

She could feel her heart beating ever faster in her chest, and watched Jon lean slightly forward. He had cocked his eyebrow just like he used to, and it sent that old, familiar rush tingling down her spine, heat pooling in all the places it shouldn’t for him.

The café around them seemed to fall away from the background, and all she could hear was her heart beating, and all she could see was Jon, and the way he made her chest flutter, and the way his fingers were tickling at her wrist, sending tingles up her arm.

All those old memories of him came flooding back in a rush; of being drunk on his smile, of the feel of her arms wrapped round his middle on his motorcycle, of him licking frosting off her finger, of him loving her and never wanting to leave.

“Then maybe you’re a wolf too,” she managed to breathe out, trying to bite down the smile that was spreading across her face.

* * *

**2 years later.**

**Jon**

Jon is standing in a ready room, in front of a mirror so large it borders on ostentatious. He’s trying to adjust a bowtie that will not stay straight, and each time he moves it this way or that, it bounces right back askew. Every muscle in his body is taut, and his stomach feels like there are a hundred bees buzzing around inside, because everything needs to be perfect today, and already things are going wrong.

He looks over to his best man, Sam, who’s giving him a sympathetic look. “It’s okay, let me help,” Sam says, moving to readjust the tie for him. 

His soon to be brother-in-law, Robb looks over from where he is standing, tying his own. “Just don’t mess it up before the ceremony, Snow,” he says with a grin, sharp blue eyes twinkling just a little too knowingly for Jon’s liking.

Jon fights down an angry snarl and takes a ragged breath. “I need some air,” he declares, before walking out of the room and into the ballroom. It’s all set up with winter rose petals on each side of the aisle, ivory chairs aligned in neat rows on either side, just as Sansa had wanted.

He walks the steps of the aisle, making sure that not a single chair is out of line._ Today needs to be perfect, Sansa deserves everything I can give her._

When he looks at the front, where in a couple short hours he and Sansa will stand up in front of all their friends and family, it sends a thrill through him, combined with a jittery excitement that makes him feel drunk and nauseous in turn. 

It does nothing to calm his nerves though, so once again he begins to walk the corridors of the event hall, trying to burn off the frenetic energy. He finds himself in the basement after a time, not truly knowing what it is he’s looking for, before he hears a sound from around a corner that stops him in his tracks.

“You look really handsome in that tux,” says a voice from behind the corner, sounding suspiciously like Sansa, smelling like her too; citrus sparking in the air. He looks down and sees the hint of a bare foot peeking out.

He closes his eyes and looks away quickly. “It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding, Stark, don’t you know that?”

“I’m not in my dress yet…” Sansa says coyly, her voice sounding plush and delicate in his ears, far too tempting for him to say no to.

“Oh really?” Jon replies, opening his eyes slowly to be welcomed by the sight of Sansa in a thin, creamy silk chemise and nothing else. He is certain at this moment that he could die happy, that he’s never see a better sight in all his nearly 30 years.

Jon pulls her in for a deep kiss, letting his tongue explore hers, his hands wandering below the chemise to the soft skin underneath. She is warm and steady in his hands, and with each kiss, he can feel the agitation melting away.

“Don’t ruin my hair,” Sansa whispers through a smile, “it took them two hours to get right.”

He can’t fight the chuckle that leaves his mouth. “It is beautiful, would be a shame if I messed it up a bit wouldn’t it?” As he finishes, he dips his head into the crook of her neck, leaving small nips on the sensitive skin of her neck. “You know, the wedding doesn’t start for another couple hours…”

“Jon Snow, are suggesting defiling your bride before she’s even your bride?”

“Well, that’s never stopped me before,” Jon replies, his mind conjuring up some of his favorite memories of them together. Somehow he is certain this one will replace them all.

He looks around down the hallway for the bridal room, opening the door as quickly as he can, pulling Sansa inside. There isn’t a bed or anything, but there’s a couch and that’s almost as good, and besides he isn’t even thinking straight anymore at the thought that soon she will be walking down the aisle towards him, that she’ll be his, for true, forever.

“I love you,” he growls into the skin of her neck, biting and licking at the soft skin there until she whimpers, but still it’s not enough. With every taste of her, of salt and something sweet, he can feel himself become more grounded, and he just needs a little bit more.

“I love you too, but no marks,” she hisses, pushing him down to the couch and sitting on his lap, grinding into his cock through the thin silk of her chemise.

Jon grins into her neck, sucking until she cries out in protest, but letting up before it reddens her skin. “I can’t promise that, love.” She lets out another protesting sound, but he swallows that with his mouth and his tongue dancing into hers.

His hands pull at the chemise, bringing the soft material up until it lifts over her head and falls to the floor, leaving her completely bare for him.

“Good girls wear panties, Sansa,” he says roughly, moving his hands to cup and squeeze her breasts, catching her nipples between his fingers and squeezing softly until she cries out and grinds down into his rapidly hardening cock.

Sansa lets out a low hum, her hands trailing down to cup his cock through the wool of his suit. “Mmm, is that what I am today?”

“Today, yes, but tomorrow who knows? Maybe tomorrow I’ll have to teach you a lesson,” he groans out, moving her hips in time to grind up and down his length. Sansa lets out a cry in response, desperate, shaking hands pulling his suit jacket and tie off.

“We don’t have much time,” she whispers into his ear, still grinding up and down in time with blunted thrusts from his hips. He knows they don’t have any time at all really, but it doesn’t matter now, he needs her with every part of his being.

Jon unzips his pants and pulls his cock out from his boxers. In a single movement he thrusts up deep inside her, causing her to let out a quiet scream. “Shh love,” Jon mutters into her neck, trying to maintain calm, trying not fuck her too hard yet. He needs her to enjoy this as much as he does. “Can’t let anyone hear, can we?”

He starts slow, letting her set the pace, content to watch her take her pleasure sitting in his lap. Soon though, he begins to fuck up into her in earnest, knowing they don’t have time, knowing the ceremony starts soon. His hands trail down her breasts to her hips, moving her up and down in rhythm with his thrusts, filling her up to the hilt.

The couch beneath him begins to protest against their movements, but the sound of it just makes Sansa laugh, her cheeks reddening slightly. Jon takes another moment to watch her, careful to memorize each part of her; the mix of concentration and growing pleasure on her face, the way her eyes have fallen closed and her neck has tilted up, the fine strands of hair that have escaped from an elegant bun, and fall down like ribbons over her face.

Her cunt is so tight and wet, and there is a certain thrill to all of this, to knowing he’ll have already fucked her today when she walks down the aisle. It’s enough to have his cock already throbbing, and he can feel that she is close too, her cunt clenching hard around him. His fingers go to her clit, rubbing soft and slow at first until her eyelashes flutter and her mouth begins to open slowly, a low moan falling from deep in her throat.

“Please,” Sansa cries out, letting her head fall into the crook of his neck.

Jon turns to kiss her cheek, rewarded with the scent of lemons and sugar wafting from her hair, enough to drive him mad. “Please what?”

One of her hands grips hard at his shoulder, while the other goes to his hand at her cunt, moving him to the rhythm she needs. “Please, I’m so close,” she almost whines, grinding hard against him.

He can feel himself begin to come inside her, and she lets out a loud moan, clenching hard around him, taking him deep within her.

She collapses into him with her own peak, and he holds her fast against his body, feeling her heart begin to slow as she comes down from her high. His cock softens inside of her, but still he wishes that they could stay like this for longer, forever if they could.

After everything he’s done and every mistake he’s made, it’s still hard to believe that they ever found their way back to each other. He lets his forehead fall lightly against hers, willing her to hear what he can’t put to words; that her love makes him whole, and that he will spend every day of the rest of his life honoring and cherishing and making her feel whole too.

Jon leans back and places a kiss gingerly to her forehead, swiping the thin strands of auburn behind her ear. “I love you, Sansa,” he murmurs, looking into those bright blue eyes that he’s loved since long before he ever even knew what love was.

Sansa gives him a smile, carefully tucking the strands into pins behind her ear. “I love you too.”

He gives her a lopsided smirk in return, and lifts her gently from his lap, pulling himself up too. “Come on Stark, let's go have a wedding," he says, bending over to pick up all his clothes.

Once Jon is dressed back in his tux, he stands in front of a mirror again, trying in vain to make his tie even. With one smooth movement, Sansa spins him around to face her and straightens it effortlessly. Her hands come to rest on his chest, and he pulls her in tight, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat match hers.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that I _finally_ finish my second longfic ever. Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you thought of it =)
> 
> Book quote from The Brothers Karamazov by Dostoyevsky


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